THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE    GARDEN    OF 
BRIGHT    WATERS 


THE   GARDEN   OF 
BRIGHT  WATERS 

ONE  HUNDRED  AND  TWENTY 
ASIATIC  LOVE  POEMS 


Translated  by 

EDWARD  POWYS  MATHERS 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

1920 


PRINTED   IN   GREAT  BRITAIN 


^ 


TO 

My  Wife 


LIBRARY 


INTRODUCTION 

Head  in  hand^  I  look  at  the  paper  leaf ; 
It  is  still  white* 

I  look  at  the  ink 

Dry  on  the  end  of  my  brush* 

My  soul  sleeps. 
Will  it  ever  wake  ? 

I  walk  a  little  in  the  pouring  of  the  sun 
And  pass  my  hands  over  the  higher  flowers. 

There  is  the  soft  green  forest, 

There  are  the  sweet  lines  of  the  mountains 

Carved  with  snow,  red  in  the  sunlight. 

I  see  the  slow  march  of  the  clouds, 

I  hear  the  crows  jeering,  and  I  come  back 

To  sit  and  look  at  the  paper  leaf. 
Which  is  still  white 
Under  my  brush. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Chang-Chi  (770-850). 


CONTENTS 


Introduction 

Afghanistan  (Pus'hto) 

The  Princess  of  Qulzum 
Come,  my  Beloved  1    ♦ 
Ballade  of  Muhammad  Khan 
Gha2;al  of  Tavakkul   ♦ 
Ghazal  of  Sayyid  Kamal      . 
Gha^al  of  Sayyid  Ahmad     ♦ 
Ghazal  of  Pir  Muhammad  . 
Ballade  of  Nurshali     . 
Ghazal  of  Muhammad  Din  Tilai 
Micra        .         ♦         ,         » 
Ballade  of  Muhammad  Din  Tilai 
Ghazal  of  Mira 
Gha^al  of  Majid  Shah 
Ghazal  of  Mira 

Ballade  of  Ajam  the  Washerman 
Gha^al  of  Isa  Akhun  Zada  ♦ 

Annam 

The  Bamboo  Garden 
Stranger  Things  have  Happened  ♦ 

9 


PAqe 

7 


17 
19 

30 
21 
22 
23 
23 
24 

25 
26 

27 
28 

29 

30 
30 

31 


33 
33 


Annam  (continued) 
Nocturne           • 

*         * 

PAGE 

34 

The  Gao  Flower        .         ♦         ♦         ♦ 

35 

The  Girl  of  Ke-Mo   .         .         .         ♦ 

36 

The  Little  Woman  of  Clear  River 

36 

Waiting  to  Marry  a  Student 

37 

A  Song  for  Two         .         ♦         .         . 

38 

Arabic 

Sand         ,.,.♦, 

39 

Two  Similes 

39 

Melodian  ♦          .          ,          , 

.      40 

The  Lost  Lady  ♦ 

,      40 

Love  Brown  and  Bitter 

.       41 

Okhouan  . 

.       41 

Lying  Down  Alone     . 

42 

Old  Greek  Lovers 

.      42 

Night  and  Morning    ♦ 

.       43 

In  a  Yellow  Frame     ♦ 

.      44 

Because  the  Good  are  Never  Fair 

.      44 

White  and  Green  and  Black  Tears 

♦      45 

A  Conceit          ♦         .         ♦         . 

.      45 

Values      ♦         ♦         ♦         .         . 

,      46 

10 

Arabic  {continued) 
What  Love  Is    ♦ 
The  Dancing  Heart 
The  Great  Offence 
An  Escape 
Three  Queens   » 
Her  Nails » 


PAGE 
46 

47 

47 
48 

48 
49 


Perturbation  at  Dawn  ...  50 

The  Resurrection  of  the  Tattooed  Girl.  50 

Moallaka  of  Antar      ♦         .         .         *  51 

Moallaka  of  Amr  Ebn  Kultum     .         .  53 

Baluchistan 

Comparisons     ♦         ♦         ,         ,         •       55 

Burma 

A  Canker  in  the  Heart         .         ♦         .       56 

Cambodia 

Disquiet   ♦*.♦♦♦       57 

Caucasus 

Vengeance 58 

The  Flight        .         ♦         •         ♦         »      61 

II 


China 

We  were  Two  Green  Rushes 

Song  Writer  Paid  with  Air  ♦ 

The  Bad  Road  ♦ 

The  Western  Window 

In  Lukewarm  Weather 

Written  on  White  Frost 

A  Flute  of  Marvel 

The  Willow-Leaf 

A  Poet  Looks  at  the  Moon  . 

We  Two  in  a  Park  at  Night 

The  Jade  Staircase 

The  Morning  Shower 

A  Virtuous  Wife 

Written  on  a  Wall  in  Spring 

A  Poet  Thinks    ♦ 

In  the  Cold  Night      . 


PAOK 
63 

63 

64 

65 
65 

66 
66 

67 
68 

69 
69 
70 

71 
71 
72 

74 


Daghestan 

Winter  Comes  . 


74 


Georgia 

Part  of  a  Ghazal 


12 


75 


Hindustan 
Fard 

Incurable . 
A  Poem  . 
Fard 

Mortification 
Fard 


PACB 

75 

76 

76 
76 

77 
77 


Japan 

Grief  and  the  Sleeve  . 

Drink  Song 

A  Boat  Comes  In 

The  Opinion  of  Men 

Old  Scent  of  the  Plum-tree 

An  Orange  Sleeve 

Invitation 

The  Clocks  of  Death 

Green  Food  for  a  Queen 

The  Cushion     ♦ 

A  Single  Night* 

At  a  Dance  of  Girls    . 

Alone  One  Night 

13 


77 
78 
78 
79 
79 

79 
80 

80 
80 
81 
81 
81 
82 


Kafiristan 


Walking  up  a  Hill  at  Dawn 

PAGS 
.              82 

Proposal  of  Marriage 

,             83 

Kazacks 

You  do  not  Want  Me^  Zohrah 

.              84 

Korea 

Tears 

*              85 

The  Dream       ♦         ♦         .         ♦ 

.              85 

Separation         .         .         .         ♦ 

.      86 

Kurdistan 

Paradise 

,      86 

Laos 

Misadventure    ♦         ♦         .         . 

.      88 

Khap-Salung     ♦         .         .         . 

.      89 

The  Holy  Swan 

.      90 

Manchuria 

Fire  and  Love  .         *         .         . 

'      91 

Hearts  of  Women       ♦ 

♦      91 

14 

Persia 

To  His  Love  instead  of  a  Promised  Pic- 
ture Book    . 

Too  Short  a  Night     , 

The  Roses 

I  Asked  my  Love 

A  Request 

See  You  Have  Dancers 

SlAM 

The  Sighing  Heart     , 

Syria 

Handing  over  the  Gun 

Tatars 

Honey 

Thibet 

The  Love  of  the  Archer  Prince 

Turkestan 

Distich     .         .         ,         , 
Things  Seen  in  Battle 
Hunter's  Song  .         ,         ,         , 

15 


PACE 
92 

93 
93 
94 
94 
94 

95 

95 
96 
96 


97 

97 
98 


Turkey 

PACE 

The  Bath           ♦         .         ,         ♦         ♦  99 

Distich     ♦..♦♦.  100 

A  Proverb          ♦         ♦         .         .         ♦  lOO 

Envoy  in  Autumn           ,         ♦         ,         ♦  loi 

Translator's  Notes       ...»  102 


16 


THE 
GARDEN    OF   BRIGHT   WATERS 

AFGHANISTAN 

THE  PRINCESS   OF  QULZUM 

(Ballade  by  Nur  Uddin) 

I  HAVE  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight ; 

I  have  seen  the  daughter  of  the  King  of  Qulzum  passing  from 

grace  to  grace. 
Yesterday  she  threw  her  bed  on  the  floor  of  her  double  house 
And  laughed  with  a  thousand  graces. 
She  has  a  little  pearl  and  coral  cap 
And  rides  in  a  palanquin  with  servants  about  her 
And  claps  her  hands^  being  too  proud  to  call. 
I  have  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight, 

**  My  palanquin  is  truly  green  and  blue  ; 

I  fill  the  world  with  pomp  and  take  my  pleasure  ; 

I  make  men  run  up  and  down  before  me. 

And  am  not  as  young  a  girl  as  you  pretend. 

I  am  of  Iran,  of  a  powerful  house,  I  am  pure  steel. 

I  hear  that  I  am  spoken  of  in  Lahore." 

I  have  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight. 

B  17 


I  also  hear  that  they  speak  of  you  in  Lahore, 

You  walk  with  a  joyous  step, 

Your  nails  are  red  and  the  palms  of  your  hands  are  rosy, 

A  pear-tree  with  a  fresh  stem  is  in  your  palace  gardens, 

I  would  not  that  your  mother  should  give  my  pear-tree 

To  twine  with  an  evil  spice-tree  or  fool  banana. 

I  have  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight, 

**  The  coins  that  my  father  gave  me  for  my  forehead 

Throw  rays  and  light  the  hearts  of  far  men  ; 

The  ray  of  light  from  my  red  ring  is  sharper  than  a  diamond. 

I  go  about  and  about  in  pride  as  of  hemp  wine 

And  my  words  are  chosen. 

But  I  give  you  my  honey  cheeks,  dear,  I  trust  them  to  you,*' 

I  have  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight. 

The  words  of  my  mouth  are  coloured  and  shining  things  ; 

And  two  great  saints  are  my  perpetual  guards. 

There  is  never  a  song  of  Nur  Uddin  but  has  in  it  a  great 

achievement 
And  is  as  brilliant  as  a  young  hyacinth  ; 
I  pour  a  ray  of  honey  on  my  disciples. 
There  is  as  it  were  a  fire  in  my  ballades. 
I  have  seen  a  small  proud  face  brimming  with  sunlight, 

FTom  the  Pm'hto  (Afghans,  nineteenth  century) . 


i8 


COME,  MY  BELOVED! 

Come,  my  beloved  !  And  I  say  again  :  Come,  my  beloved  ! 
The  doves  are  moaning  and  calling  and  will  not  cease. 
Come,  my  beloved  ! 

**  The  fairies  have  made  me  queen,  and  my  heart  is  love. 
Sweeter  than  the  green  cane  is  my  red  mouth/* 
Come,  my  beloved  ! 

The  jacinth  has  spilled  odour  on  your  hair. 
The  balance  of  your  neck  is  like  a  jacinth  ; 
You  have  set  a  star  of  green  between  your  brows. 
Come,  my  beloved  I 

Like  lemon-trees  among  the  rocks  of  grey  hills 
Are  the  soft  colours  of  the  airy  veil 
To  your  rose  knee  from  your  curved  almond  waist. 
Come,  my  beloved  I 

Your  light  breast  veil  is  tawny  brown  with  stags. 
Stags  with  eyes  of  emerald,  hunted  by  red  kings. 
Come,  my  beloved  I 

Muhammad  Din  is  wandering ;  he  is  drunken  and  mad ; 
For  a  year  he  has  been  dying.     Send  for  the  doctor  ! 
Come,  my  beloved  ! 
From  the  Pus'hto  of  Muhammad  Din  Tilai  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century), 

19 


BALLADE  OF  MUHAMMAD  KHAN 

She  has  put  on  her  green  robe,  she  has  put  on  her  double  veil, 

my  idol ; 
My  idol  has  come  to  me. 

She  has  put  on  her  green  robe,  my  love  is  a  laughing  flower ; 
Gently,  gently  she  comes,  she  is  a  young  rose,  she  has  come 

out  of  the  garden. 

Gently  she  has  shown  her  face,  parting  her  veil,  my  idol ; 

My  idol  has  come  to  me. 

She  has  put  on  her  green  robe,  my  love  is  a  young  rose  for 

me  to  break. 
Her  chin  has  the  smooth  colour  of  peaches  and  she  guards 

it  well ; 
She  is  the  daughter  of  a  Moghol  house  and  well  they  guard 

her. 

She  put  on  her  red  jewels  when  she  came  with  a  noise  of  rings, 

my  idol ; 
My  idol  has  come  to  me. 

She  has  put  on  her  green  robe,  my  love  is  the  stem  of  a  rose ; 
She  breaks  not,  she  is  strong. 
She  has  a  throne,  but  comes  into  the  woods  for  love. 

I  was  well  and  she  troubled  me  when  she  came  to  me  in  the 

evening,  my  idol ; 
My  idol  has  come  to  me. 

20 


She  has  put  on  her  green  robe,  her  wrist  is  a  sword. 
The  villages  speak  of  her  ;  the  child  is  as  fair  as  Badri. 
She  has  red  lips  and  six  hundred  and  fifty  beads  upon  her 

light  blue  scarf. 
Give  your  garland  to  Muhammad  Khan,  my  idol ; 
My  idol  has  come  to  me. 

From  the  Pus*hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century), 

GHAZAL   OF   TAVAKKUL 

To-day  I  saw  Laila's  breasts,  the  hills  of  a  fair  city 
From  which  my  heart  might  leap  to  heaven. 

Her  breasts  are  a  garden  of  white  roses 
Having  two  drifted  hills  of  fallen  rose-leaves. 

Her  breasts  are  a  garden  where  doves  are  singing 
And  doves  are  moaning  with  arrows  because  of  her. 

All  her  body  is  a  flower  and  her  face  is  Shalibagh  ; 

She  has  fruits  of  beautiful  colours  and  the  doves  abide  there. 

Over  the  garden  of  her  breasts  she  combs  the  gold  rain  of 

her  hair.  ♦  ♦  . 
You  have  killed  Tavakkul,  the  faithful  pupil  of  Abdel  Qadir 

Gilani. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 

21 


GHAZAL  OF  SAYYID  KAMAL 

I  AM  burnings  I  am  crumbled  into  powder, 
I  stand  to  the  lips  in  a  tossing  sea  of  tears. 

Like  a  stone  falling  in  Hamun  lake  I  vanish  ; 
I  return  no  more,  I  am  counted  among  the  dead, 

I  am  consumed  like  yellow  straw  on  red  flames  ; 

You  have  drawn  a  poisoned  sword  along  my  throat  to-day. 

People  have  come  to  see  me  from  far  towns, 

Great  and  small,  arriving  with  bare  heads, 

For  I  have  become  one  of  the  great  historical  lovers. 

In  the  desire  of  your  red  lips 

My  heart  has  become  a  red  kiln,  like  a  terrace  of  roses. 

It  is  because  she  does  not  trouble  about  the  bee  on  the  rose 

That  my  heart  is  taken. 

**  I  have  blackened  my  eyes  to  kill  you,  Sayyid  Kamal, 

I  kill  you  with  my  eyelids  ;  I  am  Natarsa,  the  Panjabie,  the 

pitiless." 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 


22 


GHAZAL  OF  SAYYID  AHMAD 

My  heart  is  torn  by  the  tyranny  of  women  very  quietly  ; 
Day  and  night  my  tears  are  wearing  away  my  cheeks  very 
quietly. 

Life  is  a  red  thing  like  the  sun  setting  very  quietly  ; 
Setting  quickly  and  heavily  and  very  quietly. 

If  you  are  to  buy  heaven  by  a  good  deed,  to-day  the  market 

is  open ; 
To-morrow  is  a  day  when  no  man  buys, 
And  the  caravan  is  broken  up  very  quietly. 

The  kings  are  laughing  and  the  slaves  are  laughing  ;  but  for 

your  sake 
Sayyid  Ahmad  is  walking  and  mourning  very  quietly. 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 


GHAZAL,   IN  LAMENT  FOR  THE  DEAD,  OF  PIR 

MUHAMMAD 

The  season  of  parting  has  come  up  with  the  wind  ; 

My  girl  has  hollowed  my  heart  with  the  hot  iron  of  separation^ 

Keep  away,  doctor,  your  roots  and  your  knives  are  useless. 
None  ever  cured  the  ills  of  the  ill  of  separation. 

23 


There  is  no  one  near  me  noble  enough  to  be  told  ; 
I  tear  my  collar  in  the  "  Alas  !  Alas  !  "  of  separation. 

She  was  a  branch  of  santal ;  she  closed  her  eyes  and  left  me. 
Autumn  has  come  and  she  has  gone,  broken  to  pieces  in  the 
wind  of  separation* 

I  am  Pir  Muhammad  and  I  am  stumbling  away  to  die  ; 
She  stamped  on  my  eyes  with  the  foot  of  separation. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 


BALLADE  OF  NURSHALI 

Come  in  haste  this  dusk,  dear  child.    I  will  be  on  the  water 

path 
When  your  girl  friends  go  laughing  by  the  road. 
*'  Come  in  haste  this  dusk  ;  I  have  become  your  nightingale. 
And  the  young  girls  leave  me  alone  because  of  you. 
I  give  you  the  poppy  of  my  mouth  and  my  fallen  hair.** 

Come  in  haste  this  dusk,  dear  child. 

**  I  have  dishevelled  and  spread  out  my  hair  for  you  ; 

Take  my  wrist,  for  there  is  no  shame 

And  my  father  has  gone  out. 

Sit  near  me  on  this  red  bed  quietly.** 

Come  in  haste  this  dusk,  dear  child. 

24 


'*  Sit  near  me  on  this  red  bed^  I  lift  the  poppy  to  your  hps  ; 
Your  hand  is  strong  upon  my  breast ; 
My  beauty  is  a  garden  and  you  the  bird  in  the  flowering  tree* 
Come  in  haste  this  dusk,  dear  child* 

'*  My  beauty  is  a  garden  with  crimson  flowers/* 

But  I  cannot  reach  over  the  thicket  of  your  hair. 

This  is  Nurshali  sighing  for  the  garden  ; 

Come  in  haste  this  dusk,  dear  child. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans), 


GHAZAL    OF    MUHAMMAD    DIN    TILAI 

The  world  is  fainting, 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

The  world  is  fainting 
And  falling  into  a  swoon. 

The  world  is  turning  and  changing  ; 
The  world  is  fainting. 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

Look  at  the  love  of  Farhad,  who  pierced  a  mountain 
And  pierced  a  brass  hill  for  the  love  of  Shirin. 
The  world  is  fainting, 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

25 


Qutab  Khan  of  the  Ranizais  was  in  love 
And  death  became  the  hostess  of  his  lady. 
The  world  is  fainting, 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

Adam  loved  Durkho,  and  they  were  separated. 
You  know  the  story  ; 
There  is  no  lasting  love. 
The  world  is  fainting, 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

Muhammad  Din  is  ill  for  the  matter  of  a  little  honey; 
This  is  a  moment  to  be  generous. 
The  world  is  fainting, 
And  you  will  weep  at  last. 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 


MICRA 

When  you  lie  with  me  and  love  me, 

You  give  me  a  second  life  of  young  gold  ; 

And  when  you  lie  with  me  and  love  me  not, 

I  am  as  one  who  puts  out  hands  in  the  dark 

And  touches  cold  wet  death. 

From  the  Pus'hto  of  Mirza  Rahchan  Kayil 
{Afghans,  nineteenth  century), 

26 


BALLADE  OF  MUHAMMAD  DIN  TILAI 

A  TWIST  of  fresh  flowers  on  your  dark  hair. 

And  your  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow* 

On  your  white  cheeks  the  down  of  a  thousand  roses, 

They  speak  about  your  beauty  in  Lahore. 

You  have  your  mother's  Hps  ; 

Your  ring  is  frosted  with  rubies, 

And  your  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow. 

Your  ring  is  frosted  with  rubies  ; 
I  was  unhappy  and  you  looked  over  the  wall, 
I  saw  your  face  among  the  crimson  lilies  ; 
There  is  no  armour  that  a  lover  can  buy. 
And  your  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow. 

"  The  cool  fingers  of  the  mistress  burn  her  lovers 

And  they  go  away. 

I  have  fatigued  the  wise  of  many  lands. 

And  my  hair  is  a  tangle  of  serpents. 

What  is  the  profit  of  these  shawls  without  you  ? 

And  my  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow." 

"  A  squadron  of  my  father's  men  are  about  me. 
And  I  have  woven  a  collar  of  yellow  flowers. 
My  eyes  are  veiled  because  I  drink  cups  of  bhang. 
Being  a  daughter  of  the  daughter  of  queens. 
You  cannot  touch  me  because  of  my  palaces. 
And  my  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow." 

27 


I  will  touch  you,  though  your  beauty  be  as  fair  as  song ; 
For  I  am  a  disciple  of  Abdel  Qadir  Gilani, 
And  my  songs  are  as  beautiful  as  women  and  as  strong  as  love  ; 
And  your  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow. 

Your  ring  is  frosted  with  rubies.  .  .  . 
Muhammad  Din  awaits  the  parting  of  your  scarves  ; 
Tilai  is  standing  here,  young  and  magnificent  like  a  tree  j 
And  your  hair  is  a  panther's  shadow. 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century). 


GHAZAL   OF  MIRA 

The  lover  to  his  lass  :  I  have  fallen  before  your  door. 
I  came  to  ask  for  alms  and  have  lost  my  all, 
I  had  a  copper-shod  quarter-staff  but  the  dogs  attacked  me, 
And  not  a  strand  of  her  hair  came  the  way  of  my  lips. 
The  lover  to  his  lass  :  I  have  fallen  before  your  door. 

The  lamp  burns  and  I  must  play  the  green  moth. 
I  have  stolen  her  scented  rope  of  flowers. 
But  the  women  caught  me  and  built  a  little  gaol 
About  my  heart  with  your  old  playthings. 
The  lover  to  his  lass  :  I  have  fallen  before  your  door. 

28 


Mira  is  a  mountain  goat  that  climbs  to  die 

Upon  the  top  peak  in  the  rocks  of  grief ; 

It  is  the  hour  ;  make  haste. 

The  lover  to  his  lass  :  I  have  fallen  before  your  door. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans,  nineteenth  century)* 


GHAZAL  OF   MAJID   SHAH 

Grief  is  hard  upon  me,  Master,  for  she  has  left  me  ; 
The  black  dust  has  covered  my  pretty  one. 

My  heart  is  black,  for  the  tomb  has  taken  my  friend  ; 
How  pleasantly  would  go  the  days  if  my  friend  were  here. 

I  can  only  dream  of  the  stature  of  my  friend  ; 
The  flowers  are  dying  in  my  heart,  my  breast  is  a  fading 
garden. 

Her  breast  is  a  sweet  garden  now,  and  her  garments  are  gold 

flowers ; 
I  am  an  orchard  at  night,  for  my  friend  has  gone  a  journey, 

I  am  Majid  Shah,  a  slave  that  ministers  to  the  dead  ; 
Abdel  Qadir  Gilani,  even  the  Master,  shall  not  save  me. 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century)* 


29 


GHAZAL   OF  MIRA 

The  world  passes^  nothing  lasts,  and  the  creation  of  men 
Is  buried  alive  under  the  vault  of  Time* 

Autumn  comes  pillaging  gardens  ; 

The  bulbuls  laugh  to  see  the  flowers  falling. 

Wars  start  up  wherever  your  eye  glances, 

And  the  young  men  moan  marching  on  to  the  batteries. 

Mira  is  the  unkempt  old  man  you  see  on  the  road  ; 
He  has  taken  his  death-wound  in  battle. 

From  the  Pus'hto  {Afghans,  nineteenth  century) » 


BALLADE  OF  AJAM  THE  WASHERMAN 

Come  to  me  to-day  wearing  your  green  collar, 
Make  your  two  orange  sleeves  float  in  the  air,  and  come  to  me. 
Touch  your  hair  with  essence  and  colour  your  clothes  yellow  ; 
The  deer  of  reason  has  fled  from  the  hill  of  my  heart ; 
Come  to  me. 

The  deer  of  reason  has  fled  from  the  hill  of  my  heart 
Because  I  have  seen  your  gold  rings  and  your  amber  rings  j 
Your  eyes  have  lighted  a  small  fire  below  my  heart. 
Put  on  your  gold  rings  and  your  amber  rings,  and  come  to  me, 

30 


Put  on  your  gold  rings  and  your  amber  rings,  and  you  will  be 

more  beautiful 
Than  the  brown  girls  of  poets  and  the  milk-white  wives  of 

kings. 
The  coil  of  your  hair  is  like  a  hangman's  rope  ; 
But  press  me  to  your  green  collar  between  your  orange  sleeves. 

Press  me  to  your  green  collar  between  your  orange  sleeves, 
And  give  yourself  once  to  Ajam,     Slip  away  weeping, 
Slip  weeping  away  from  the  house  of  the  wicked,  and  come  to 

me. 
Come  to  me  to-day  wearing  your  green  collar. 
Make  your  two  orange  sleeves  float  in  the  air  and  come  to  me. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans), 

GHAZAL   OF   ISA  AKHUN  ZADA 

Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me  ; 
Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me  ; 
Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  let  me  say  a  little  thing. 
Lend  your  small  ears  to  my  quick  sighing. 
Breathing  idol,  I  have  come  to  the  walls  of  death  ; 
And  there  are  coloured  cures  behind  the  crystal  of  your  eyes. 
Life  is  a  tale  ill  constructed  without  love. 
Beauty  of  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me  ; 
I  am  at  your  door  wasted  and  white  and  dying. 
Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me  ; 
Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me. 

31 


This  is  the  salaam  that  slaves  make,  and  after  the  salaam 
Listen  to  these  quick  sighings  and  their  wisdom. 
All  the  world  has  spied  on  us  and  seen  our  love, 
And  in  four  days  or  five  days  will  be  whispering  evil. 
Knot  your  robes  in  a  turban,  escape  and  be  mine  for  ever  ; 
Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me. 
After  that  we  will  both  of  us  go  to  prison. 
Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me  ; 
Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me. 

My  quick  sighings  carry  a  tender  promise  ; 

I  will  have  time  to  remember  in  the  battle, 

Though  all  the  world  is  a  thousand  whistling  swords  against  me. 

The  iron  is  still  in  the  rock  that  shall  forge  my  death-sword, 

Though  I  have  foes  more  than  the  stars 

Of  a  thousand  valley  starlights. 

Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me  ; 

Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me. 

I  am  as  strong  as  Sikander,  I  am  as  strong  as  death  ; 

You  will  hear  me  come  with  guns  brooding  behind  me, 

And  laughing  bloody  battalions  following  after. 

Isa  Gal  is  stronger  than  God  ; 

Do  not  whip  me,  do  not  whip  me. 

Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me  ; 

Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me. 

Breathing  idol  of  rose  ivory,  look  at  me  ; 

Beauty  with  the  flame  shawl,  do  not  repulse  me. 

From  the  Pus'hto  (Afghans,  nineteenth  century), 

32 


ANNAM 

THE  BAMBOO  GARDEN 

Old  bamboos  are  about  my  house, 

And  the  floor  of  my  house  is  untidy  with  old  books. 

It  is  sweet  to  rest  in  the  shade  of  it 

And  read  the  poems  of  the  masters. 

But  I  remember  a  dehghtful  fisherman 

Who  played  on  the  five-stringed  dan  in  the  evening. 

In  the  day  he  allowed  his  reed  canoe  to  float 

Over  the  lakes  and  rivers, 

Watching  his  nets  and  singing. 

A  sweet  boy  promised  to  marry  me. 

But  he  went  away  and  left 

Like  a  reed  canoe  that  rolls  adrift 

In  the  middle  of  a  river. 

Song  of  Annam, 


STRANGER  THINGS   HAVE   HAPPENED 

Do  not  believe  that  ink  is  always  black. 

Or  lime  white,  or  lemon  sour  ; 
You  cannot  ring  one  bell  from  two  pagodas. 
You  cannot  have  two  governors  for  the  city  of  Lang  Son, 

C  33 


I  found  you  binding  an  orange  spray 
Of  flowers  with  white  flowers  ; 
I  never  noticed  the  flower  gathering 
Of  other  village  ladies. 
Would  you  like  me  to  go  and  see  your  father  and  mother  ? 

Song  of  Annam* 


NOCTURNE 

It  is  late  at  night 

And  the  North  Star  is  shining. 

The  mist  covers  the  rice-fields 

And  the  bamboos 

Are  whispering  full  of  crickets. 

The  watch  beats  on  the  iron-wood  gong, 

And  priests  are  ringing  the  pagoda  bells. 

We  hear  the  far-away  games  of  peasants 

And  distant  singing  in  the  cottages. 

It  is  late  at  night. 

As  we  talk  gently, 

Sitting  by  one  another, 

Life  is  as  beautiful  as  night. 

The  red  moon  is  rising 

On  the  mountain  side 

Like  a  fire  started  among  the  trees. 

34 


There  is  the  North  Star 

Shining  hke  a  paper  lantern. 

The  light  air  brings  dew  to  our  faces 

And  the  sound  of  tamtams  beaten  far  away. 

Let  us  sit  like  this  all  night. 

Song  of  Annam, 


THE   GAO   FLOWER 

I  AM  the  Gao  flower  high  in  a  tree. 
You  are  the  grass  Long  Mai  on  the  path-side. 
When  heat  comes  down  after  the  dews  of  morning 
The  flower  grows  pale  and  tumbles  on  the  grass, 
The  grass  Long  Mai  that  keeps  the  fallen  Gao, 

Folk  who  let  their  daughters  grow 
Without  achieving  a  husband 
Might  easily  forget  to  fence  their  garden, 
Or  let  their  radishes  grow  flower  and  rank 
When  they  could  eat  them  ripe  and  tender. 

Come  to  me,  you  that  I  see  walk 

Every  night  in  a  red  turban  ; 

Young  man  with  the  white  turban,  come  to  me. 

We  will  plant  marrows  together  in  a  garden. 

And  there  may  be  little  marrows  for  your  children. 

35 


I  will  dye  your  turban  blue  and  red  and  yellow, 
You  with  the  white  turban. 
»    You  that  are  passing  with  a  load  of  water, 
I  call  you 
And  you  do  not  even  turn  your  head. 

Song  of  Annam, 

THE   GIRL   OF  KE-MO. 

I'm  a  girl  of  Ke-Mo  village 

Selling  my  rice  wine  on  the  road. 

Mine  is  the  strongest  rice  wine  in  the  land, 

Though  my  bottle  is  so  patched  and  dirty. 

These  silly  rags  are  not  my  body, 

The  parts  you  cannot  see  are  counted  pleasant ; 

But  you  are  just  too  drunk  to  drink  my  wine. 

And  just  too  plain  to  lie  down  on  my  mat. 

He  who  would  drink  the  wine  of  the  girl  of  Ke-Mo 

Needs  a  beautiful  body  and  a  lofty  wit. 

Song  of  Annam, 

THE  LITTLE  WOMAN  OF  CLEAR  RIVER 

Clear  River  twists  nine  times  about 
Clear  River  ;  but  so  deep 
That  none  can  see  the  green  sand. 
You  hear  the  birds  about  Clear  River  : 
Dik,  dik,  dik,  dik,  Diu  dik. 
36 


A  little  woman  with  jade  eyes 
Leans  on  the  wall  of  a  pavilion. 
She  has  the  moonrise  in  her  heart 
And  the  singing  of  love  songs 
Comes  to  her  up  the  river. 

She  stands  and  dreams  for  me 

Outside  the  house  by  the  bamboo  door. 

In  a  minute 

I  will  leave  my  shadow 

And  talk  to  her  of  poetry  and  love. 

Song  of  Annam, 

WAITING  TO  MARRY  A  STUDENT 

I  STILL  walk  slowly  on  the  river  bank 

Where  I  came  singing, 

And  where  I  saw  your  boat  pass  up  beyond  the  sun 

Setting  red  in  the  river. 

I  want  Autumn, 

I  want  the  leaves  to  begin  falling  at  once, 

So  that  the  cold  time  may  bring  us  close  again 

Like  K'ien  Niii  and  Chik  Nii,  the  two  stars. 

Each  year  when  Autumn  comes 

The  crows  make  a  black  bridge  across  the  milky  sea, 

And  then  these  two  poor  stars 

Can  run  together  in  gold  and  be  at  peace* 

37 


Darling,  for  my  sake  work  hard 

And  be  received  with  honour  at  the  Examinations. 

Since  I  saw  your  boat  pass  up  beyond  the  sun 

I  have  forgotten  how  to  sing 

And  how  to  paddle  the  canoe  across  the  lake. 

I  know  how  to  sit  down  and  how  to  be  sad, 

And  I  know  how  to  say  nothing  ; 

But  every  other  art  has  shpped  away. 

Song  of  Annam. 


A   SONG   FOR   TWO 

I  HA^T  lacquered  my  teeth  tc  f.nd  a  husband. 

And  I  have  need  of  a  wife. 

Give  me  a  kiss  and  they  will  marry  us 

At  Mo-Lao,  my  village. 

I  will  marry  you  if  you  will  wait  for  me. 

Wait  till  the  banana  puts  forth  branches. 

And  fruit  hangs  heaw  on  the  Sung-tree, 

And  the  onion  flowers  ; 

Wait  till  the  dove  goes  down  in  the  pool  to  lay  her  eggs, 

And  the  eel  climbs  into  a  tree  to  make  her  nest. 

Song  of  Annam.. 

38 


ARABIC 

SAND 

The  sand  is  like  acres  of  %vet  milk 
Poured  out  under  the  moonlight ; 
It  crawls  up  about  your  brown  feet 
Like  wine  trodden  from  white  stars. 

From,  the  Arabic  of  John  Dimcaru 


TWO   SIMILES 

You  have  taken  away  my  cloak, 

My  cloak  of  weariness  ; 

Take  my  coat  also, 

My  many-coloured  coat  of  life.  .  .  . 

On  this  great  nursery  floor 

I  had  three  toys, 

A  bright  and  varnished  vow, 

A  Speckled  Monster,  best  of  boys. 

True  friend  to  me,  and  more 

Beloved  and  a  thing  of  cost. 

My  doll  painted  hke  life  ;  and  now 

One  is  broken  and  tvi^o  are  lost. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Dxmcai, 


39 


MELODIAN 

I  HAVE  been  at  this  shooting-gallery  too  long. 
It  is  monotonous  how  the  little  coloured  balls 
Make  up  and  down  on  their  silvery  water  thread  ; 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  have  money  and  go  instead 
To  watch  your  greasy  audience  in  the  threepenny  stalls 
Of  the  World-famous  Caravan  of  Dance  and  Song. 

And  I  want  to  go  out  beyond  the  turf  fires  there, 

After  I've  looked  at  your  just  smiling  face, 

To  that  untented  silent  dark  blue  nighted  place  ; 

And  wait  such  time  as  you  will  wish  the  noise  all  dumb 

And  drop  your  fairings  and  leave  the  funny  man,  and  come*  ♦ « , 

You  have  the  most  understanding  face  in  all  the  fair. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan, 


THE  LOST  LADY 

You  are  the  drowned. 

Star  that  I  found 

Washed  on  the  rim  of  the  sea 

Before  the  morning. 

You  are  the  little  dying  light 

That  stopped  me  in  the  night. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan. 


40 


LOVE  BROWN  AND  BITTER 

You  know  so  well  how  to  stay  me  with  vapours 

Distilled  expertly  to  that  unworthy  end  ; 

You  know  the  poses  of  your  body  I  love  best 

And  that  I  am  cheerful  with  your  head  on  my  breast ; 

You  know  you  please  me  by  disliking  one  friend  ; 

You  read  up  what  amuses  me  in  the  papers. 

Who  knows  me  knows  I  am  not  of  those  fools 
That  gets  tired  of  a  woman  who  is  kind  to  them. 
Yet  you  know  not  how  stifled  you  render  me 
By  learning  me  so  well,  how  I  long  to  see 
An  unpractised  girl  under  your  clever  phlegm, 
A  soul  not  so  letter-perfect  in  the  rules. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan. 


OKHOUAN 

A  MOLE  shows  black 

Between  her  mouth  and  cheek. 

As  if  a  negro, 
Coming  into  a  garden. 
Wavered  between  a  purple  rose 
And  a  scarlet  camomile. 

From  the  Arabic, 
41 


LYING  DOWN  ALONE 

I  SHALL  never  see  your  tired  sleep 
In  the  bed  that  you  make  beautiful, 
Nor  hardly  ever  be  a  dream 
That  plays  by  your  dark  hair  ; 
Yet  I  think  I  know  your  turning  sigh 
And  your  trusting  arm's  abandonment. 
For  they  are  the  picture  of  my  night. 
My  night  that  does  not  end. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan, 


OLD   GREEK  LOVERS 

They  put  wild  olive  and  acanthus  up 

With  tufts  of  yellow  wool  above  the  door 

When  a  man  died  in  Greece  and  in  Greek  Islands, 

Grey  stone  by  the  blue  sea, 
Or  sage-green  trees  down  to  the  water's  edge. 
How  many  clanging  years  ago 
I,  also  withering  into  death,  sat  with  him. 

Old  man  of  so  white  hair  who  only. 
Only  looked  past  me  into  the  red  fire. 
At  last  his  words  were  all  a  jumble  of  plum-trees 
And  white  boys  smelling  of  the  sea's  green  wine 
And  practice  of  his  lyre.     Suddenly 
The  bleak  resurgent  mind 

42 


Called  wonderfully  clear  :  "  What  mark  have  I  left  ?  " 

Crying  girls  with  wine  and  linen 
Washed  the  straight  old  body  and  wrapped  up, 

And  set  the  doorward  feet. 
Later  for  me  also  under  Greek  sun 
The  pendant  leaves  in  green  and  bitter  flakes 
Blew  out  to  join  the  wastage  of  the  world, 
And  wool,  I  take  it,  in  the  nests  of  birds. 

From  the  Arabic  of  John  Duncan, 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING 

The  great  brightness  of  the  burning  of  the  stars. 

Little  frightened  love. 

Is  like  your  eyes. 

When  in  the  heavy  dusk 

You  question  the  dark  blue  shadows. 

Fearing  an  evil. 

Below  the  night 

The  one  clear  line  of  dawn  ; 

As  it  were  your  head 

Where  there  is  one  golden  hair 

Though  your  hair  is  very  brown. 

From  the  Arabic 
(School  of  Ebn-el-Moattaz)  {ninth  century). 


43 


IN  A  YELLOW   FRAME 

Her  hand  tinted  to  gold  with  henna 

Gave  me  a  cup  of  wine  like  gold  water, 

And  I  said  :  The  moon  rise,  the  sun  rise. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Hefny-bey-Nassif 

{contemporary) . 


BECAUSE  THE  GOOD  ARE  NEVER  FAIR 

When  she  appears  the  daylight  envies  her  garment, 
The  wanton  daylight  envies  her  garment 
To  show  it  to  the  jealous  sun. 

And  when  she  walks, 

All  women  tall  and  tiny 

Want  her  figure  and  start  crying. 


Because  of  your  mouth. 
Long  life  to  the  Agata  valley, 
Long  life  to  pearls. 


Watchers  have  discovered  paradise  in  your  cheeks. 

But  I  am  undecided, 

For  there  is  a  hint  of  the  tops  of  flames 

In  their  purple  shining. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Ahmed  Bey  Chawky 

{contemporary), 

44 


WHITE  AND  GREEN  AND  BLACK  TEARS 

Why  are  your  tears  so  white  ? 

Dear,  I  have  wept  so  long 

That  my  old  tears  grow  white  like  my  old  hair. 

Why  are  your  tears  so  green  ? 
Dear,  the  waters  are  wept  away 
And  the  green  gall  is  flowing. 

Why  are  your  tears  so  black  ? 

Dear,  the  weeping  is  over 

And  the  black  flash  you  loved  is  breaking. 

From  the  Arabic  {School  of  Ebn-el-Farid) 
{thirteenth  century). 


A  CONCEIT 

I  HIDE  my  love, 

I  will  not  say  her  name. 

And  yet  since  I  confess 

I  love,  her  name  is  told. 

You  know  that  if  I  love 

It  must  be  .  .  .  Whom  ? 

From  the  Arabic  ofEbn  Kalakis  Abu  El  Fath  Nasrallah 
•  {eleventh  century). 


45 


VALUES 

Since  there  is  excitement 

In  suffering  for  a  woman. 

Let  him  burn  on. 

The  dust  in  a  wolf's  eyes 

Is  balm  of  flowers  to  the  wolf 

When  a  flock  of  sheep  has  raised  it. 

From  the  Arabic* 


WHAT  LOVE   IS 

Love  starts  with  a  little  throb  in  the  heart, 
And  in  the  end  one  dies 
Like  an  ill-treated  toy. 
Love  is  born  in  a  look  or  in  four  words, 
The  little  spark  that  burnt  the  whole  house. 
Love  is  at  first  a  look. 
And  then  a  smile, 
And  then  a  word, 
And  then  a  promise, 

And  then  a  meeting  of  two  among  flowers. 

From  the  Arabic, 


46 


THE  DANCING  HEART 

When  she  came  she  said  : 

You  know  that  your  love  is  granted. 

Why  is  your  heart  trembling  ? 

And  I: 

You  are  bringing  joy  for  my  heart 

And  so  my  heart  is  dancing. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Urak  El  HutaU, 

THE  GREAT  OFFENCE 

She  seemed  so  bored, 

I  wanted  to  embrace  her  by  surprise  ; 

But  then  the  scalding  waters 

Fell  from  her  eyes  and  burnt  her  roses. 

I  offered  her  a  cup.  .  .  . 

And  came  to  paradise.  .  .  . 

Ah,  sorrow. 

When  she  rose  from  the  waves  of  wine 
I  thought  she  would  have  killed  me 
With  the  swords  of  her  desolation.  ,  .  . 

Especially  as  I  had  tied  her  girdle 
With  the  wrong  bow. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Abu  Nuas  (eighth  century), 

47 


AN  ESCAPE 
She  was  beautiful  that  evening  and  so  gay*  ♦  .  ♦ 

In  little  games 

My  hand  had  slipped  her  mantle, 

I  am  not  sure 

About  her  skirts. 

Then  in  the  night's  curtain  of  shadows, 

Heavy  and  discreet, 

I  asked  and  she  replied  : 

To-morrow. 

Next  day  I  came 
Saying,  Remember. 

Words  of  a  night,  she  said,  to  bring  the  day. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Abu  Nuas 
{eighth  century), 

THREE   QUEENS 

Three  sweet  drivers  hold  the  reins, 
And  hold  the  places  of  my  heart. 
A  great  people  obeys  me, 
But  these  three  obey  me  not. 
Am  I  then  a  lesser  king  than  love  ? 

From  the  Arabic  of  Haroun  El  Raschid 
{eighth  century), 

48 


HER  NAILS 

She  is  as  wise  as  Hippocrates, 
As  beautiful  as  Joseph, 
As  sweet-voiced  as  David, 
As  pure  as  Mary. 

I  am  as  sad  as  Jacob, 
As  lonely  as  Jonah, 
As  patient  as  Job, 
As  unfortunate  as  Adam. 

When  I  met  her  again 

And  saw  her  nails 

Prettily  purpled, 

I  reproached  her  for  making  up 

When  I  was  not  there. 

She  told  me  gently 

That  she  was  no  coquette. 

But  had  wept  tears  of  blood 

Because  I  was  not  there. 

And  maybe  she  had  dried  her  eyes 

With  her  little  hands. 

I  would  like  to  have  wept  before  she  wept ; 
But  she  wept  first 
And  has  the  better  love. 
D  49 


Her  eyes  are  long  eyes, 

And  her  brows  are  the  bows  of  subtle  strong  men. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Yazid  Ebn  Moatda 
{seventh  century). 

PERTURBATION  AT  DAWN 

Day  comes.  .  .  . 

And  when  she  sees  the  withering  of  the  violet  garden 
And  the  saffron  garden  flowering, 
The  stars  escaping  on  their  black  horse 
And  dawn  on  her  white  horse  arriving, 
She  is  afraid. 

Against  the  sighing  of  her  frightened  breasts 

She  puts  her  hand ; 

I  see  what  I  have  never  seen, 

Five  perfect  lines  on  a  crystal  leaf 

Written  with  coral  pens. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Ebn  Maatuk  {seventeenth  century), 

THE  RESURRECTION  OF  THE  TATTOOED  GIRL 

Her  hands  are  filled  with  what  I  lack. 
And  on  her  arms  are  pictures. 
Looking  like  files  of  ants  forsaking  the  battalions, 
Or  hail  inlaid  by  broken  clouds  on  green  lawns. 

50 


She  fears  the  arrows  of  her  proper  eyes 
And  has  her  hands  in  armour. 

She  has  stretched  her  hands  in  a  cup  to  me, 
Begging  for  my  heart. 

She  has  circled  me  with  the  black  magic  of  her  brows 
And  shot  small  arrows  at  me. 

The  black  curl  that  lies  upon  her  temple 
Is  a  scorpion  pointing  his  needle  at  the  stars. 

Her  eyes  seem  tight,  tight  shut ; 
But  I  believe  she  is  awake. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Yazid  Ebn  Moauia  {seventh  century). 


MOALLAKA 

The  poets  have  muddied  all  the  little  fountains. 

Yet  do  not  my  strong  eyes  know  you,  far  house  ? 

O  dwelling  of  Abla  in  the  valley  of  Gawa, 
Speak  to  me,  for  my  camel  and  I  salute  you. 

My  camel  is  as  tall  as  a  tower,  and  I  make  him  stand 
And  give  my  aching  heart  to  the  wind  of  the  desert. 

51 


O  erstwhile  dwelling  of  Abla  in  the  valley  of  Gawa  ; 
And  my  tribe  in  the  valleys  of  Hazn  and  Samna 
And  in  the  valley  of  Motethalem  ! 

Salute  to  the  old  ruins,  the  lonely  ruins 

Since  Oum  El  Aythan  gathered  and  went  away. 

Now  is  the  dwelling  of  Abla 

In  a  valley  of  men  who  roar  like  lions. 

It  will  be  hard  to  come  to  you,  O  daughter  of  Makhram. 


Abla  is  a  green  rush 

That  feeds  beside  the  water. 

But  they  have  taken  her  to  Oneiza 

And  my  tribe  feeds  in  lazy  Ghailam  valley. 

They  fixed  the  going,  and  the  camels 
Waked  in  the  night  and  evilly  prepared. 

I  was  afraid  when  I  saw  the  camels 
Standing  ready  among  the  tents 
And  eating  grain  to  make  them  swift. 

I  counted  forty-two  milk  camels, 
Black  as  the  wings  of  a  black  crow. 

52 


White  and  purple  are  the  lilies  of  the  valley, 
But  Abla  is  a  branch  of  flowers. 

Who  will  guide  me  to  the  dwelling  of  Abla  ? 

From  the  Arabic  of  Antar 
(late  sixth  and  early  seventh  centuries). 


MOALLAKA 

Rise  and  hold  up  the  curved  glass, 

And  pour  us  wine  of  the  morning,  of  El  Andar. 

Pour  wine  for  us,  whose  golden  colour 

Is  like  a  water  stream  kissing  flowers  of  saffron. 

Pour  us  wine  to  make  us  generous 
And  carelessly  happy  in  the  old  way. 

Pour  us  wine  that  gives  the  miser 

A  sumptuous  generosity  and  disregard. 

O  Oum-Amr,  you  have  prevented  me  from  the  cup 
When  it  should  have  been  moving  to  the  right ; 
And  yet  the  one  of  us  three  that  you  would  not  serve 
Is  not  the  least  worthy. 

How  many  cups  have  I  not  emptied  at  Balbek, 
And  emptied  at  Damas  and  emptied  at  Cacerin  ! 

53 


More  cups !  more  cups !  for  death  will  have  his  day ; 
His  are  we  and  he  ours. 


By  herself  she  is  fearless 

And  gives  her  arms  to  the  air, 

The  limbs  of  a  long  camel  that  has  not  borne. 

She  gives  the  air  her  breasts, 
Unfingered  ivory. 

She  gives  the  air  her  long  self  and  her  curved  self. 
And  hips  so  round  and  heavy  that  they  are  tired. 

All  these  noble  abundances  of  girlhood 

Make  the  doors  divinely  narrow  and  myself  insane. 

Columns  of  marble  and  ivory  in  the  old  way. 
And  anklets  chinking  in  gold  and  musical  bracelets. 

Without  her  I  am  a  she-camel  that  has  lost, 
And  howls  in  the  sand  at  night. 

Without  her  I  am  as  sad  as  an  old  mother 

Hearing  of  the  death  of  her  many  sons. 

From  the  Arabic  of  Amr  Ebn  Kultum 
{seventh  century). 


54 


BALUCHISTAN 

COMPARISONS 

Touch  my  hands  with  your  fingers,  yellow  wallflower. 

Did  God  use  a  bluer  paint 

Painting  the  sky  for  the  gold  sun 

Or  making  the  sea  about  your  two  black  stars  ? 

Treasure  the  touches  of  my  fingers. 
God  did  not  spread  his  bluest  paint 
On  a  hollow  sky  or  a  girl's  eye, 
But  on  a  topaz  chain,  from  you  to  me. 

Touch  my  temples  with  your  fingers,  scarlet  rose. 
Did  God  use  a  stronger  light 

When  He  fashioned  and  dropped  the  sun  into  the  sky 
Or  dropped  your  black  stars  into  their  blue  sea  ? 

Treasure  the  touches  of  my  fingers. 
God  did  not  spend  His  strongest  light 
On  a  sun  above  or  a  look  of  love, 
But  on  a  round  gold  ring,  from  you  to  me. 

Touch  my  cheeks  with  your  fingers,  blue  hyacinth. 

Did  God  use  a  whiter  silk 

Weaving  the  veil  for  your  fevered  roses, 

Or  spinning  the  moon  that  lies  across  your  face  ? 

55 


Treasure  the  touches  of  my  fingers. 
God  did  not  waste  His  whitest  web 
On  veils  of  silk  or  moons  of  milk. 
But  on  a  marriage  cap,  from  you  to  me. 

Popular  Song  of  Baluchistan. 


BURMA 

A  CANKER  IN  THE  HEART 

I  MADE  a  bitter  song 

When  I  was  a  boy, 

About  a  girl 

With  hot  earth-coloured  hair, 

Who  lived  with  me 

And  left  me. 


I  made  a  sour  song 
On  her  marriage-day, 
That  ever  his  kisses 
Would  be  ghosts  of  mine. 
And  ever  the  measure 
Of  his  halting  love 
Flow  to  my  music. 
56 


It  was  a  silly  song, 

Dear  wife  with  cool  black  hair, 

And  yet  when  I  recall 

(At  night  with  you  asleep) 

That  once  you  gave  yourself 

Before  we  met, 

I  do  not  quite  well  know 

What  song  to  make. 

From  the  Burmese 
{nineteenth  century)  (j*  by  Asmapur), 


CAMBODIA 

DISQUIET 

Brother,  my  thought  of  you 
In  this  letter  on  a  palm-leaf 
Goes  up  about  you 
As  her  own  scent 
Goes  up  about  the  rose. 

The  bracelets  on  my  arms 
Have  grown  too  large 
Because  you  went  away. 

I  think  the  sun  of  love 

Melted  the  snow  of  parting. 

For  the  white  river  of  tears  has  overflowed, 

57 


But  though  I  am  sad 
I  am  still  beautiful, 
The  girl  that  you  desired 
In  April. 

Brother,  my  love  for  you 
In  this  letter  on  a  palm-leaf 
Brightens  about  you 
As  her  own  rays 
Brighten  about  the  moon. 

Love  Poem  of  Cambodia. 

CAUCASUS 

VENGEANCE 

AiscHA  was  mine, 
My  tender  cousin. 
My  blond  lover ; 
And  you  knew  our  love. 
Uncle  without  bowels. 
Foul  old  man. 

For  a  few  weights  of  gold 
You  sold  her  to  the  blacks, 
And  they  will  drive  a  stinking  trade 
At  the  dark  market ; 
Your  slender  daughter. 
The  free  child  of  our  hills. 
58 


She  will  go  to  serve  the  bed 
Of  a  fat  man  with  no  God, 
A  guts  that  cannot  walk, 
A  belly  hiding  his  own  feet, 
A  rolling  paunch 
Between  itself  and  love. 

She  was  slim  and  quick 

Like  the  antelope  of  our  hills 

When  he  comes  down  in  the  summer-time 

To  bathe  in  the  pools  of  Tereck, 

Her  stainless  flesh 

Was  all  moonlight. 

Her  long  silk  hair 

Was  of  so  fine  a  gold 

And  of  so  honey-like  a  brown 

That  bees  flew  there. 

And  her  red  lips 

Were  flowers  in  sunlight. 

She  was  fair,  alas,  she  was  fair, 
So  that  her  beauty  goes 
To  a  garden  of  dying  flowers. 
Made  one  with  the  girls  that  mourn 
And  wither  for  light  and  love 
Behind  the  harem  bars. 

59 


And  you  have  dirty  dreams 
That  she  will  be  Sultane, 
And  you  will  drink  and  boast 
And  roll  about, 
The  grinning  ancestor 
Of  little  kings. 

Hugging  your  very  wicked  gold 

Within  a  greasy  belt. 

You  paddle  exulting  like  a  bald  ape 

That  glories  to  defile, 

Unmindful  of  two  hot  young  streams 

Of  tears. 

You  stole  this  dirty  gold, 
For  this  gold  means 
Your  daughter's  freedom 
And  your  nephew's  love. 
Two  fresh  and  lovely  things 
Groaning  within  your  belt. 

The  sunny  playing  of  our  childhood 
At  the  green  foot  of  Elbours, 
The  starry  playing  of  our  youth 
Beyond  the  flowery  fences. 
These  sigh  their  lost  delights 
Within  your  belt. 
60 


Give  me  the  gold  ; 

Damn  you,  give  me  the  gold,  . 

You  kill  my  mercy 

When  you  kill  my  love.  ♦  .  . 

Hold  up  your  trembling  sword  ; 

For  this  is  death. 


I  take  the  belt  from  the  dead  loins 

That  put  away  my  love, 

And  turn  my  sweet  white  horse 

After  the  caravan.  .  .  . 

With  dirty  gold  and  clean  steel 

I'll  set  Aischa  free. 

Ballad  of  the  Caucasus. 


THE   FLIGHT 

Softly  into  the  saddle 
Of  my  black  horse  with  white  feet ; 
Your  brothers  are  frowning 
And  grasping  swords  in  sleep. 
My  rifle  is  as  clean  as  moonlight, 
My  flints  are  new  ; 
My  long  grey  sword  is  sighing 
In  his  blue  sheath, 
6i 


Fatima  gave  me  my  grey  sword 

Of  Temrouk  steel, 

Damascened  in  red  gold 

To  cut  a  pathway  for  the  feet  of  love. 

My  eye  is  dark  and  keen, 

My  hand  has  never  trembled  on  the  sword » 

If  your  brothers  rise  and  follow 

On  their  stormy  horses. 

If  they  stretch  their  hot  hands 

To  catch  you  from  my  breast. 

My  rifle  shall  not  sing  to  them. 

My  steel  shall  spare. 

My  rifle's  song  is  for  my  yellow  girl. 

My  eye  is  dark  and  keen, 

I'll  send  my  bullet  to  the  fairest  heart 

That  ever  lady  loved  with  in  the  world. 

My  hand  upon  the  sword 
Shall  be  so  strong. 
He'll  find  the  little  laughing  place 
Where  you  dance  in  my  breast ; 
And  we'll  have  no  more  of  the  silly  world 
Where  our  lips  must  lie  apart. 
We'll  let  death  pour  our  souls 
Into  one  cup. 

And  mount  like  joyous  birds  to  God 
With  hearts  on  fire, 

62 


And  God  will  mingle  us  into  one  shape 
In  an  eternal  garden  of  gold  stars. 

Love  Ballad  of  the  Caucasus, 


CHINA 

WE  WERE   TWO   GREEN  RUSHES 

We  were  two  green  rushes  by  opposing  banks, 
And  the  small  stream  ran  between. 

Not  till  the  water  beat  us  down 
Could  we  be  brought  together, 

Not  till  the  winter  came 

Could  we  be  mingled  in  a  frosty  sleep, 
Locked  down  and  close. 

From  the  Chinese  of  J.  Wing 
(nineteenth  century). 

SONG  WRITER  PAID  WITH  AIR 

I  SIT  on  a  white  wood  box 

Smeared  with  the  black  name 

Of  a  seller  of  white  sugar. 

The  little  brown  table  is  so  dirty 

That  if  I  had  food 

I  do  not  think  I  could  eat. 

63 


How  can  I  promise  violets  drunken  in  wine 

For  your  amusement^ 

How  can  I  powder  your  blue  cotton  dress 

With  splinters  of  emerald, 

How  can  I  sing  you  songs  of  the  amber  pear, 

Or  pour  for  the  finger-tips  of  your  white  fingers 

Mingled  scents  in  a  rose  agate  bowl  ? 

From  the  Chinese  of  J,  Wing 
(nineteenth  century), 

THE  BAD  ROAD 

I  HAVE  seen  a  pathway  shaded  by  green  great  trees, 
A  road  bordered  by  thickets  light  with  flowers. 

My  eyes  have  entered  in  under  the  green  shadow, 
And  made  a  cool  journey  far  along  the  road. 

But  I  shall  not  take  the  road, 
Because  it  does  not  lead  to  her  house* 

When  she  was  born 

They  shut  her  little  feet  in  iron  boxes, 

So  that  my  beloved  never  walks  the  roads. 

When  she  was  born 

They  shut  her  heart  in  a  box  of  iron, 

So  that  my  beloved  shall  never  love  me. 

From  the  Chinese, 

64 


THE  WESTERN  WINDOW 

At  the  head  of  a  thousand  roaring  warriors, 
With  the  sound  of  gongs, 
My  husband  has  departed 
Following  glory. 

At  first  I  was  overjoyed 

To  have  a  young  girl's  liberty. 

Now  I  look  at  the  yellowing  willow-leaves ; 
They  were  green  the  day  he  left. 

I  wonder  if  he  also  was  glad  ? 

From  the  Chinese  of  Wang  Ch'ang  Ling 
(eighth  century). 


IN  LUKEWARM  WEATHER 

The  women  who  were  girls  a  long  time  ago 
Are  sitting  between  the  flower  bushes 
And  speaking  softly  together  : 

**  They  pretend  that  we  are  old  and  have  white  hair; 
They  say  also  that  our  faces 
Are  not  like  the  spring  moons. 

*'  Perhaps  it  is  a  lie  ; 
We  cannot  see  ourselves. 
E  65 


**  Who  will  tell  us  for  certain 

That  winter  is  not  at  the  other  side  of  the  mirror. 

Obscuring  our  delights 

And  covering  our  hair  with  frost  ?  " 

From  the  Chinese  of  Wang  Ch'ang  Ling 
{eighth  century), 

WRITTEN  ON  WHITE  FROST 

The  white  frost  covers  all  the  arbute-trees. 
Like  powder  on  the  faces  of  women. 

Looking  from  window  consider 

That  a  man  without  women  is  like  a  flower 

Naked  without  its  leaves. 

To  drive  away  my  bitterness 

I  write  this  thought  with  my  narrowed  breath 
On  the  white  frost. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Wang  Chi 
{sixth  and  seventh  centuries) 

A  FLUTE   OF   MARVEL 

Under  the  leaves  and  cool  flowers 

The  wind  brought  me  the  sound  of  a  flute 

From  far  away. 

66 


I  cut  a  branch  of  willow 

And  answered  with  a  lazy  song. 

Even  at  night,  when  all  slept, 

The  birds  were  listening  to  a  conversation 

In  their  own  language. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Li  Po  (705-763), 


THE  WILLOW-LEAF 

I  AM  in  love  with  a  child  dreaming  at  the  window. 

Not  for  her  elaborate  house 
On  the  banks  of  Yellow  River  ; 

But  for  a  willow-leaf  she  has  let  fall 
Into  the  water. 

I  am  in  love  with  the  east  breeze* 

Not  that  he  brings  the  scent  of  the  flowering  of  peaches 
White  on  Eastern  Hill ; 

But  that  he  has  drifted  the  willow-leaf 
Against  my  boat. 

I  am  in  love  with  the  willow-leaf. 

67 


Not  that  he  speaks  of  green  spring 
Coming  to  us  again  ; 

But  that  the  dreaming  girl 

Pricked  there  a  name  with  her  embroidery  needle, 
And  the  name  is  mine. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Chang  Chiu  Ling  (675-740). 

A  POET  LOOKS  AT  THE  MOON 

I  HEAR  a  woman  singing  in  my  garden, 
But  I  look  at  the  moon  in  spite  of  her. 

I  have  no  thought  of  trying  to  find  the  singer 
Singing  in  my  garden  ; 
I  am  looking  at  the  moon. 

And  I  think  the  moon  is  honouring  me 
With  a  long  silver  look. 

I  blink 

As  bats  fly  black  across  the  ray  ; 

But  when  I  raise  my  head  the  silver  look 

Is  still  upon  me. 

The  moon  delights  to  make  eyes  of  poets  her  mirror, 
And  poets  are  many  as  dragon  scales 
On  the  moonlit  sea. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Chang  Jo  Hsu. 

68 


WE  TWO   IN  A  PARK  AT  NIGHT 

We  have  walked  over  the  high  grass  under  the  wet  trees 
To  the  gravel  path  beside  the  lake^  we  two. 
A.  noise  of  light-stepping  shadows  follows  now 
From  the  dark  green  mist  in  which  we  waded. 

Six  geese  drop  one  by  one  into  the  shivering  lake  ; 
They  say  **  Peeng  '*  and  then  after  a  long  time,  **  Peeng/' 
Swimming  out  softly  to  the  moon. 

Three  of  the  balancing  dancing  geese  arc  dim  and  black, 
And  three  are  white  and  clear  because  of  the  moon  ; 
In  what  explanatory  dawn  will  our  souls 
Be  seen  to  be  the  same  ? 

From  the  Chinese  of  J,  Wing  {nineteenth  century). 

THE  JADE   STAIRCASE 
The  jade  staircase  is  bright  with  dew. 

Slowly,  this  long  night,  the  queen  climbs. 
Letting  her  gauze  stockings  and  her  elaborate  robe 
Drag  in  the  shining  water. 

Dazed  with  the  light, 

She  lowers  the  crystal  blind 

Before  the  door  of  the  pavilion. 

It  leaps  down  like  a  waterfall  in  sunlight. 

69 


While  the  tiny  clashing  dies  down. 

Sad  and  long  dreaming, 

She  watches  between  the  fragments  of  jade  light 

The  shining  of  the  autumn  moon. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Li  Po  (705-762). 

THE  MORNING  SHOWER 

The  young  lady  shows  like  a  thing  of  light 
In  the  shadowy  deeps  of  a  fair  window 
Grown  round  with  flowers. 

She  is  naked  and  leans  forward,  and  her  flesh  like  frost 
Gathers  the  light  beyond  the  stone  brim. 

Only  the  hair  made  ready  for  the  day 
Suggests  the  charm  of  modern  clothing. 

Her  blond  eyebrows  are  the  shape  of  very  young  moons. 

The  shower^s  bright  water  overflows 
In  a  pure  rain. 

She  lifts  one  arm  into  an  urgent  line, 

Cooling  her  rose  fingers 

On  the  grey  metal  of  the  spray. 

If  I  could  choose  my  service,  I  would  be  the  shower 

Dashing  over  her  in  the  sunlight. 

From  the  Chinese  of  J.  S.  Ling  (190 1). 

70 


A  VIRTUOUS  WIFE 

One  moment  I  place  your  two  bright  pearls  against  my  robe^ 
And  the  red  silk  mirrors  a  rose  in  each. 

Why  did  I  not  meet  you  before  I  married  ? 

See,  there  are  two  tears  quivering  at  my  lids  ; 
I  am  giving  back  your  pearls. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Chang  Chi  (770-850). 

WRITTEN  ON  A  WALL   IN   SPRING 

It  rained  last  night, 

But  fair  weather  has  come  back 

This  morning. 

The  green  clusters  of  the  palm-trees 
Open  and  begin  to  throw  shadows. 

But  sorrow  drifts  slowly  down  about  me. 

I  come  and  go  in  my  room, 
Heart-heavy  with  memories. 

The  neighbour  green  casts  shadows  of  green 

On  my  blind  ; 

The  moss,  soaked  in  dew. 

Takes  the  least  print 

Like  delicate  velvet. 

71 


I  see  again  a  gauze  tunic  of  oranged  rose 
With  shadowy  underclothes  of  grenade  red. 

How  things  still  live  again. 

I  go  and  sit  by  the  day  balustrade 

And  do  nothing 

Except  count  the  plains 

And  the  mountains 

And  the  valleys 

And  the  rivers 

That  separate  from  my  Spring, 

From  the  Chinese 
{early  nineteenth  century). 

A  POET   THINKS 

The  rain  is  due  to  fall, 
The  wind  blows  softly. 

The  branches  of  the  cinnamon  are  moving, 
The  begonias  stir  on  the  green  mounds. 

Bright  are  the  flying  leaves, 
The  falhng  flowers  are  many. 

72 


The  wind  lifted  the  dry  dust, 

And  he  is  hfting  the  wet  dust ; 

Here  and  there  the  wind  moves  everything 

He  passes  under  light  gauze 
And  touches  me. 

I  am  alone  with  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

There  are  leagues  of  sky. 

And  the  water  is  flowing  very  fast. 

Why  do  the  birds  let  their  feathers 
Fall  among  the  clouds  ? 

I  would  have  them  carry  my  letters, 
But  the  sky  is  long. 

The  stream  flows  east 

And  not  one  wave  comes  back  with  news. 

The  scented  magnolias  are  shining  still. 
But  always  a  few  are  falling. 

I  close  his  box  on  my  guitar  of  jasper 
And  lay  aside  my  jade  flute. 

13 


I  am  alone  with  the  beating  of  my  heart. 

Stay  with  me  to-night, 
Old  songs. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Liu  Chi  (1311-1375). 


IN  THE  COLD  NIGHT 

Reading  in  my  book  this  cold  night, 

I  have  forgotten  to  go  to  sleep. 

The  perfumes  have  died  on  the  gilded  bed-cover  ; 

The  last  smoke  must  have  left  the  hearth 

When  I  was  not  looking. 

My  beautiful  friend  snatches  away  the  lamp. 

Do  you  know  what  the  time  is  ? 

From  the  Chinese  of  Yuan  Mei 
(i7i5-i797)« 


DAGHESTAN 

WINTER  COMES 

Winter  scourges  his  horses 
Through  the  North, 
His  hair  is  bitter  snow 
On  the  great  wind. 
The  trees  are  weeping  leaves 
Because  the  nests  are  dead, 

74 


Because  the  flowers  were  nests  of  scent 
And  the  nests  had  singing  petals 
And  the  flowers  and  nests  are  dead. 

Your  voice  brings  back  the  songs 

Of  every  nest^ 

Your  eyes  bring  back  the  sun 

Out  of  the  South, 

Violets  and  roses  peep 

Where  you  have  laughed  the  snow  away 

And  kissed  the  snow  away, 

And  in  my  heart  there  is  a  garden  still 

For  the  lost  birds. 

Song  of  Daghestan. 

GEORGIA 

PART  OF  A  GHAZAL 

Lonely  rose  out-splendouring  legions  of  roses. 
How  could  the  nightingales  behold  you  and  not  sing  ? 
By  Rustwell  of  Georgia  (from  the  Tariel — twelfth  century), 

HINDUSTAN 

FARD 

Love  brings  the  tiny  sweat  into  your  hair 

Like  stars  marching  in  the  dead  of  night. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Mir  Taqui 
{eighteenth  century). 

75 


INCURABLE 

I  DESIRE  the  door-sill  of  my  beloved 

More  than  a  king's  house  ; 
I  desire  the  shadow  of  the  wall  where  her  beauty  hides 

More  than  the  Delhi  palaces. 
Why  did  you  wait  till  spring  ; 
Were  not  my  hands  already  full  of  red-thorned  roses  ? 

My  heart  is  yours^ 
So  that  I  know  not  which  heart  I  hear  sighing  : 

Yaquin,  Yaquin,  Yaquin,  foolish  Yaquin. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Yaquin  (eighteenth  century), 

A  POEM 

Joy  fills  my  eyes,  remembering  your  hair,  with  tears, 

And  these  tears  roll  and  shine  ; 
Into  my  thoughts  are  woven  a  dark  night  with  raindrops 

And  the  rolling  and  shining  of  love  songs. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Mir  Taqui  (eighteenth  century). 

FARD 

Ever  your  rose  face  or  black  curls  are  with  Shaguil ; 
Because  your  curls  are  night  and  your  face  is  day. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Shaguil  (eighteenth  century). 


76 


MORTIFICATION 

Now  that  the  wind  has  taught  your  veil  to  show  your 

eyes  and  hair, 
All  the  world  is  bowing  down  to  your  dear  head  ; 
Faith  has  crept  away  to  die  beside  the  tomb  of  prayer. 
And  men  are  kneeling  to  your  hair,  and  God  is  dead. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Hatifi 
{eighteenth  century). 


FARD 

A  LOVE-SICK  heart  dies  when  the  heart  is  whole. 
For  all  the  heart's  health  is  to  be  sick  with  love. 

From  the  Hindustani  of  Miyan  Jagnu 
{eighteenth  century). 


JAPAN 

GRIEF  AND   THE   SLEEVE 

Tears  in  the  moonlight, 
You  know  why, 
Have  marred  the  flowers 
On  my  rose  sleeve. 
Ask  why. 

From  the  Japanese  of  Hide-Yoshu 

77 


DRINK   SONG 

The  crows  have  wakened  me 

By  cawing  at  the  moon. 

I  pray  that  I  shall  not  think  of  him  ; 

I  pray  so  intently 

That  he  begins  to  fill  my  whole  mind. 

This  is  getting  on  my  nerves  ; 

I  wonder  if  there  is  any  of  that  wine  left. 

Japanese  Street  Song, 


A  BOAT   COMES   IN 

Although  I  shall  not  see  his  face 

For  the  low  riding  of  the  ship, 

The  three  armorial  oak-leaves  on  his  cloak 

Will  be  enough. 

But  what  if  I  make  a  mistake 

And  call  to  the  wrong  man  ? 

Or  make  no  sign  at  all. 

And  it  is  he  ? 

Japanese  Street  Song. 

78 


THE  OPINION   OF  MEN 

My  desires  are  like  the  white  snows  on  Fuji 

That  grow  but  never  melt. 

I  am  becoming  proud  of  my  bad  reputation  ; 

And  the  more  men  say, 

We  cannot  understand  why  she  loves  him, 

The  less  I  care. 

I  am  sure  that  in  a  very  short  time 

I  shall  give  myself  to  him. 

Japanese  Street  Song, 

OLD   SCENT   OF   THE  PLUM-TREE 

Remembering  what  passed 
Under  the  scent  of  the  plum-tree, 
I  asked  the  plum-tree  for  tidings 
Of  that  other. 

Alas  .  .  .  the  cold  moon  of  spring.  .  .  . 
From  the  Japanese  of  Fujiwara  letaka, 
(1158-1337)- 

AN   ORANGE   SLEEVE 

In  the  fifth  month. 

When  orange-trees 

Fill  all  the  world  with  scent, 

I  think  of  the  sleeve 

Of  a  girl  who  loved  me. 

From  the  Japanese  of  Nari-hira, 

79 


INVITATION 

The  chief  flower 

Of  the  plum-tree  of  this  isle 

Opens  to-night,  .  .  ♦ 

Come,  singing  to  the  moon, 

In  the  third  watch. 

From  the  Japanese  of  a  Courtesan  of  Nagasaki* 

THE  CLOCKS  OF  DEATH 

In  a  life  where  the  clocks 

Are  slow  or  fast, 

It  is  a  pleasant  thing 

To  die  together 

As  we  are  dying. 

From  the  Japanese  of  the  Wife  ofBes-syo  Ko-saburo  Nagu-hara. 
(sixteenth  century), 

GREEN  FOOD  FOR  A  QUEEN 

I  WAS  gathering 

Leaves  of  the  Wakana 

In  springtime. 

Why  did  the  snow  fall 

On  my  dress  ? 

From  the  Japanese  of  the  Mikado  Ko-ko  Ten-no, 
{ninth  century), 

80 


THE   CUSHION 

Your  arm  should  only  be 

A  spring  night's  dream  ; 

If  I  accepted  it  to  rest  my  head  upon 

There  would  be  rumours 

And  no  delight. 

From  the  Japanese  of  the  daughter  of 
Taira-no  Tsa-gu-naka. 

A  SINGLE   NIGHT 

Was  one  night, 

And  that  a  night 

Without  much  sleep, 

Enough  to  make  me  love 

All  the  life  long  ? 

From  the  Japanese  of  the  wife  of  the  Mikado  Sui-toka  In 
{twelfth  century). 

AT  A  DANCE   OF   GIRLS 

Let  the  wind's  breath 

Blow  in  the  glades  of  the  clouds 

Until  they  close  ; 

So  that  the  beauty  of  these  girls 

May  not  escape. 

From  the  Japanese  of  So-dzyo  Hend-zyo, 

8i 


ALONE  ONE  NIGHT 

This  night. 

Long  like  the  drooping  feathers 

Of  the  pheasant, 

The  chain  of  mountains, 

Shall  I  sleep  alone  ? 

From  the  Japanese  of  Kaik-no  Motto-no  Hitomaro 
{seventh  and  eighth  centuries). 


KAFIRISTAN 

WALKING  UP  A  HILL  AT  DAWN 

Here  is  the  wind  in  the  morning  ; 
The  kind  red  face  of  God 
Is  looking  over  the  hill 
We  are  climbing. 

To-morrow  we  are  going  to  marry 
And  work  and  play  together, 
And  laugh  together  at  things 
Which  would  not  amuse  our  neighbours. 

Song  of  Kafiristan, 


82 


PROPOSAL  OF  MARRIAGE 

Your  eyes  are  black  like  water-melon  pips, 

Your  lips  are  red  like  the  red  flesh  of  water-melons, 

Your  loins  are  smooth  like  smooth-rind  water-melons. 

You  are  more  beautiful  than  my  favourite  among  mares. 

Your  buttocks  are  sleeker  and  firmer. 

Like  her  your  movements  are  on  legs  of  light  steel. 

Come  and  sit  at  my  hearth,  and  I  will  celebrate  your  coming  ; 
I  will  choose  from  the  hundred  flocks  of  each  a  hundred. 
Passing  at  the  foot  of  the  Himalaya, 

The  two  most  silky  and  most  beautiful  great  sheep. 
We  will  go  to  the  temple  and  sacrifice  one  of  the  two 
To  the  god  Pandu,  that  you  may  have  many  children  ; 

And  I  will  kill  the  other  and  roast  it  whole. 

My  most  fair  rose-tree  serving  as  a  spit. 

I  will  ask  the  prettiest  eaters  and  the  prettiest  drinkers  ; 

And  while  they  eat  and  drink  greatly  for  three  days, 
I  will  wind  silver  rings  upon  your  arms  and  feet 
And  hang  a  chain  of  river  gold  about  your  neck. 

Popular  Song  of  Kafiristan, 


83 


KAZACKS 

YOU  DO  NOT  WANT  ME? 

You  do  not  want  me,  Zohrah. 

Is  it  because  I  am  maimed  ? 

Yet  Tamour-leng  was  maimed, 

Going  on  crippled  feet, 

And  he  conquered  the  vast  of  the  world. 

You  do  not  want  me,  Zohrah* 

Is  it  because  I  am  maimed  ? 

Yet  I  have  one  arm  to  fight  for  you. 

One  arm  to  crush  you  to  my  rough  breast, 

One  arm  to  break  men  for  you. 

It  was  to  shield  you  from  the  Khargis 
That  I  drag  this  stump  in  the  long  days. 
It  has  been  so  with  my  women  ; 
They  would  have  made  you  a  toy  for  heat. 

After  their  chief  with  his  axe  once  swinging 
Cut  my  left  arm,  that,  severed,  bloody,  and  dead, 
Yet  struggled  on  the  ground  trying  to  guard  you, 
I  have  had  pain  for  long  in  my  arm  that's  lost. 

Since  the  silk  nets  of  your  grape-lustrous  eyes 
Ensnared  this  heart  that  did  not  try  to  guard, 
Ever  I  have  a  great  pain  in  my  heart  that's  lost. 
You  do  not  want  me,  Zohrah, 

Kazack  poem  of  the  Chief  Gahuan-Beyg  (1850-1885). 
84 


KOREA 

TEARS 

How  can  a  heart  play  any  more  with  Hie, 
After  it  has  found  a  woman  and  known  tears  ? 

In  vain  I  shut  my  windows  against  the  moonhght ; 
I  have  estranged  sleep. 

The  flower  of  her  face  is  growing  in  the  shadow 
Among  warm  and  rustling  leaves.  .  .  . 

I  see  the  sunlight  on  her  house, 

I  see  her  curtains  of  vermilion  silk.  ♦  ♦  ♦ 

Here  is  the  almond-coloured  dawn  ; 
And  there  is  dew  on  the  petals  of  my  night  flower. 

Lyric  of  Korea, 

THE   DREAM 

I  DREAMED  that  I  was  touching  her  eyelids,  and  I  awoke 
To  find  her  sleepy  temples  of  rose  jade 
For  one  heart-beat.  .  .  . 

Though  the  moonlight  beats  upon  the  sea. 

There  is  no  boat. 

Lyric  of  Korea. 

85 


SEPARATION 

As  water  runs  in  the  river^  so  runs  time  ; 
And  ever  my  eyes  are  wasted  of  her  presence. 

The  red  flowers  of  the  second  moon  were  yesterday  ; 
To-day  the  earth  has  spots  of  blood,  and  there  are  no  flowers. 

The  wild  geese  were  harnessed  to  the  autumn  moon  ; 
They  have  come,  I  heard  their  crying,  and  they  are  gone. 

They  have  passed  and  given  me  no  message  ; 
I  only  hear  the  falling,  falling  noise  of  white  rain. 

Song  of  Korea, 

KURDISTAN 

PARADISE 

Paradise,  my  darling,  know  that  paradise, 
The  Prophet-given  paradise  after  death. 
Is  far  and  very  mysterious  and  most  high  ; 
My  habits  would  be  upset  in  such  a  place. 

Without  impiety,  I  should  be  mortally  weary 
If  I  went  there  alone,  without  my  wife  ; 
An  ugly  crowding  of  inferior  females. 
What  should  I  do  with  the  houris  ? 

86 


What  should  I  do  with  those  tall  loaded  fruit-trees, 
Seeing  I  could  not  give  the  fruit  to  you  ? 
What  by  the  freshness  of  those  blue  streams, 
Seeing  my  face  reflected  there  alone  ? 

And  it  might  be  worse  if  you  came  with  me, 
For  all  of  Allah's  Chosen  would  desire  you. 
And  if  Mahomet  threw  his  handkerchief 
And  took  you  up  and  loved  you  for  himself  ? 

Eyes  of  my  eyes,  how  could  I  then  defend  you  ? 
I  could  not  be  at  ease  and  watch  him  love  you  ; 
And  if  I  mutinied  against  the  Prophet, 
He,  being  zealous  to  love  you  in  his  peace. 

Would  rise  and  send  me  hurrying 
Back  by  the  sword-blade  thinness  of  the  bridge 
From  paradise  to  earth,  and  in  the  middle 
Flick  me  down  sideways  to  the  fires  of  hell. 

My  skin  would  cook  and  be  renewed  for  ever 
Where  murderers  were  burning  and  renewing  ; 
And  evil  souls,  my  only  crime  being  love. 
Would  burn  me  and  annoy  me  and  destroy  me. 

If  I  were  there  and  you  in  paradise, 
I  could  not  even  make  my  prayer  to  Allah 
That  in  his  justice  he  should  give  me  back 
My  paradise. 

87 


Let  us  love^  therefore,  on  the  earth  together  ; 
Our  love  is  our  garden,  let  us  take  great  care, 
Whisper  and  call  pet  names  and  kiss  each  other 
To  live  our  paradise  as  long  as  may  be. 

Love  Ballad  of  Kurdistan. 


LAOS 


MISADVENTURE 

Ever  at  the  far  side  of  the  current 
The  fishes  hurl  and  swim. 
For  pelicans  and  great  birds 
Watch  and  go  fishing 
On  the  bank-side. 

No  man  dare  go  alone 
In  the  dim  great  forest, 
But  if  I  were  as  strong 
As  the  green  tiger 
I  would  go* 

The  holy  swan  on  the  sea 
Wishes  to  pass  over  with  his  wings. 
But  I  think  it  would  be  hard 
To  go  so  far. 

If  you  are  still  pure. 
Tell  me,  darling  ; 
88 


If  you  are  no  longer 

Clear  like  an  evening  star. 

You  are  the  heart  of  a  great  tree 

Eaten  by  insects. 

Why  do  you  lower  your  eyes  ? 

Why  do  you  not  look  at  me  ? 

When  the  blue  elephant 
Finds  a  lotus  by  the  water-side 
He  takes  it  up  and  eats  it. 
Lemons  are  not  sweeter  than  sugar. 

If  I  had  the  moon  at  home 
I  would  open  my  house  wide 
To  the  four  winds  of  the  horizon, 
So  that  the  clouds  that  surround  her 
Should  escape  and  be  shaken  away. 

Song  of  the  Love  Nights  of  Laos. 

KHAP-SALUNG 

Seeing  that  I  adore  you, 
Scarf  of  golden  flowers, 
Why  do  you  stay  unmarried  ? 
As  the  liana  at  a  tree's  foot 
That  quivers  to  wind  it  round. 
So  do  I  wait  for  you.     I  pray  you 
Do  not  detest  me,  .  ♦  . 
89 


I  have  come  to  say  farewell. 

Farewell,  scarf ; 

Garden  Royal 

Where  none  may  enter. 

Gaudy  money 

I  may  not  spend. 

Song  of  the  Love  Nights  of  Laos, 


THE   HOLY   SWAN 

Fair  journey,  O  holy  swan  with  gold  wings  ; 

O  holy  swan  that  I  love,  fair  journey  ! 

Carry  this  letter  for  me  to  the  new  land, 

The  place  where  my  lover  labours. 

If  it  rains  fly  low  beneath  the  trees. 

If  the  sun  is  hot  fly  in  the  forest  shadows  ; 

If  any  ask  you  where  you  are  going 

Do  not  answer. 

You  who  rise  for  so  long  a  journey, 

Avoid  the  roofs  at  the  hour  when  the  sun  is  red. 

Carry  this  letter  to  the  new  land  of  my  lover. 

If  he  is  faithful,  give  it  to  him  ; 

If  he  has  forgotten,  read  it  to  him  only 

And  let  the  lightning  burn  it  afterwards. 

Song  of  the  Love  Nights  of  Laos, 


90 


MANCHURIA 

FIRE  AND  LOVE 

If  you  do  not  want  your  heart 
Burnt  at  a  small  flame 
Like  a  spitted  sheep^ 
Fly  the  love  of  women. 
Fire  burns  what  it  touches, 
But  love  burns  from  afar. 

Folk  Song  of  Manchuria. 

HEARTS   OF  WOMEN 

It  is  hard  for  a  man  to  tell 
The  hidden  thought  in  his  friend's  heart, 
And  the  thought  in  a  man's  own  heart 
Is  a  thing  darker. 

If  you  have  seen  a  woman's  heart 
Bare  to  your  eyes, 
Go  quickly  away  and  never  tell 
What  you  have  seen  there. 

Street  Song  of  Manchuria. 


91 


PERSIA 

TO  HIS  LOVE  INSTEAD  OF  A  PROMISED 
PICTURE-BOOK 

The  greater  and  the  lesser  ills  : 
He  waved  his  grey  hand  wearily 
Back  to  the  anger  of  the  sea, 

Then  forward  to  the  blue  of  hills. 

Out  from  the  shattered  barquenteen 
The  black  frieze-coated  sailors  bore 
Their  dying  despot  to  the  shore 

And  wove  a  crazy  palanquin. 

They  found  a  valley  where  the  rain 
Had  worn  the  fern-wood  to  a  paste 
And  tiny  streams  came  down  in  haste 

To  eastward  of  the  mountain  chain. 

And  here  was  handiwork  of  Cretes, 
And  olives  grew  beside  a  stone, 
And  one  slim  phallos  stood  alone 

Blasphemed  at  by  the  paroquets. 

Hard  by  a  wall  of  basalt  bars 

The  night  came  like  a  settling  bird, 
And  here  he  wept  and  slept  and  stirred 

Faintly  beneath  the  turning  stars. 

93 


Then  like  a  splash  of  saffron  whey 
That  spills  from  out  a  bogwood  bowl 
Oozed  from  the  mountain  clefts  the  whole 

Rich  and  reluctant  light  of  day. 

And  when  he  neither  moved  nor  spoke 
And  did  not  heed  the  morning  call, 
They  laid  him  underneath  the  wall 

And  wrapped  him  in  a  purple  cloak. 

From  the  Modem  Persian. 

TOO   SHORT  A  NIGHT 

Lily  of  Streams  lay  by  my  side  last  night 

And  to  my  prayers  gave  answers  of  delight ; 

Day  came  before  our  fairy-tale  was  finished^ 

Because  the  tale  was  long,  not  short  the  night. 

From  the  Persian  of  Abu-Said 
(978-1062). 

THE  ROSES 

Roses  are  a  wandering  scent  from  heaven. 

Rose-seller,  why  do  you  sell  your  roses  ? 

For  silver  ?  But  with  the  silver  from  your  roses 

What  can  you  buy  so  precious  as  your  roses  ? 

From  the  Persian  of  Abu-  Yshac 
(middle  of  the  tenth  century). 

93 


I  ASKED  MY  LOVE 

I  ASKED  my  love  :  **  Why  do  you  make  yourself  so  beautiful  ?  " 

**  To  please  myself. 
I  am  the  eye^  the  mirror^  and  the  loveliness  ; 
The  loved  one  and  the  lover  and  the  love." 

From  the  Persian  of  Abu-Said  (978-1063). 


A  REQUEST 

When  I  am  cold  and  undesirous  and  my  lids  lie  dead, 

Come  to  watch  by  the  body  that  loved  you  and  say  : 

This  is  Rondagui,  whom  I  killed  and  my  heart  regrets  for 

ever. 

From  the  Persian  of  Rondagui  {tenth  century). 


SEE  YOU   HAVE  DANCERS 

See  you  have  dancers  and  wine  and  a  girl  like  one  of  the  angels 

(If  they  exist), 
And  find  a  clear  stream  singing  near  its  birth  and  a  bed  of  moss 

(If  moss  exists), 
For  loving  and  singing  to  the  dancers  and  drinking  and  for- 
getting hell 

(If  hell  exists), 
Because  this  is  a  pastime  better  than  paradise 

(If  paradise  exists). 

From  the  Persian  of  Omar  Khayyam  (eleventh  century), 

94 


SIAM 

THE  SIGHING  HEART 

I  MADE  search  for  you  all  my  life,  and  when  I  found  you 
There  came  a  trouble  on  me, 
So  that  it  seemed  my  blood  escaped 
And  my  life  ran  back  from  me 
And  my  heart  slipped  into  you. 
It  seems,  also,  that  you  are  the  moon 
And  that  I  am  at  the  top  of  a  tree. 
If  I  had  wings  I  would  spread  them  as  far  as  you. 
Dear  bud,  that  will  not  open 

Though  the  kisses  of  the  holy  bird  knock  at  your  petal  door* 

Song  of  Siam* 

SYRIA 

HANDING  OVER  THE   GUN 

Kill  me  if  you  will  not  love  me. 

Here  are  flints  ; 
Ram  down  the  heavy  bullet,  little  leopard, 

On  the  black  powder. 

Only  you  must  not  shoot  me  through  the  head, 

Nor  touch  my  heart ; 

Because  my  head  is  full  of  the  ways  of  you 

And  my  heart  is  dead. 

Song  of  Syria* 

95 


TATARS 

HONEY 

Young  man, 
If  you  try  to  eat  honey 
On  the  blade  of  a  knife, 
You  will  cut  yourself. 

If  you  try  to  taste  honey 
On  the  kiss  of  a  woman, 
Taste  with  the  lips  only. 
If  not,  young  man, 
You  will  bite  your  own  heart. 

Song  of  the  Tatars, 

THIBET 

THE  LOVE   OF  THE  ARCHER  PRINCE 
The  Khan. 

The  son  of  the  Khan. 

The  love  of  the  son  of  the  Khan. 

The  veil  of  the  love  of  the  son  of  the  Khan. 

The  clear  breeze  that  lifted  the  veil  of  the  love  of  the  son  of 
the  Khan, 

96 


The  buds  of  fire  that  scented  the  clear  breeze  that  lifted  the 
veil  of  the  love  of  the  son  of  the  Khan. 

The  Archer  Prince  whose  love  kissed  the  buds  of  fire  that 
scented  the  clear  bree2;e  that  lifted  the  veil  of  the  love 
of  the  son  of  the  Khan. 

And  the  girl  married  the  Archer  Prince  whose  love  kissed  the 
buds  of  fire  that  scented  the  clear  breeze  that  lifted  the 
veil  of  the  love  of  the  son  of  the  Khan. 

Street  Song  of  Thibet* 

TURKESTAN 

DISTICH 

Your  face  upon  a  drop  of  purple  wine 
Shows  like  my  soul  poised  on  a  bead  of  blood. 
From  the  Turkic  of  Hussein  Baikrani, 


THINGS   SEEN   IN  A  BATTLE 

Clear  diamond  heart, 
I  have  been  hunting  death 
Among  the  swords. 

But  death  abhors  my  shadow> 
And  I  come  back 
Wounded  with  memories. 

97 


Your  eyes, 

For  steel  is  amorous  of  steel 

And  there  are  bright  blue  sparks. 

Your  lips, 

I  see  great  bloody  roses 

Cut  in  white  dead  breasts. 

Your  bed, 

For  I  see  wrestling  bodies 

Under  the  evening  star. 

From  the  Turkic, 


HUNTER'S   SONG 

Not  a  stone  from  my  black  sling 
Ever  misses  anything, 
But  the  arrows  of  your  eye 
Surer  shoot  and  faster  fly. 

Not  one  creature  that  I  hit 
Lingers  on  to  know  of  it. 
But  the  game  that  falls  to  love 
Lives  and  lingers  long  enough. 

From  the  Turkic, 


98 


TURKEY 

THE  BATH 

My  dreams  are  bubbles  of  cool  light, 
Sunbeams  mingled  in  the  light  green 
Waters  of  your  bath. 

Through  fretted  spaces  in  the  olive  wood 
My  love  adventures  with  the  white  sun. 

I  dive  into  the  ice-coloured  shadows 
Where  the  water  is  like  light  blue  flowers 
Dancing  on  mirrors  of  silver. 

The  sun  rolls  under  the  waters  of  your  bath 
Like  the  body  of  a  strong  swimmer. 

And  now  you  cool  your  feet, 
Which  have  the  look  of  apple  flowers. 
Under  the  water  on  the  oval  marble 
Coloured  like  yellow  roses. 

Your  scarlet  nipples 

Waver  under  the  green  kisses  of  the  water, 
Flowers  drowned  in  a  mountain  stream. 

From  the  Modern  Tizrkisfu 


99 


DISTICH 

Lions  tremble  at  my  claws  ; 
And  I  at  a  gazelle  with  eyes. 

From  the  Turkish  of  Sultan  Selim  I, 


A  PROVERB 

Before  you  love^ 

Learn  to  run  through  snow 

Leaving  no  footprint. 

From  the  Turkish. 


^ 


I  GO 


ENVOY   IN  AUTUMN 

Here  are  the  doleful  rains, 

And  one  would  say  the  sky  is  weeping 

The  death  of  the  tolerable  weather. 

Tedium  cloaks  the  wit  like  a  veil  of  clouds 
And  we  sit  down  indoors. 

Now  is  the  time  for  poetry  coloured  with  summer. 

Let  it  fall  on  the  white  paper 

As  ripe  flowers  fall  from  a  perfect  tree. 

I  will  dip  down  my  lips  into  my  cup 
Each  time  I  wet  my  brush. 

And  keep  my  thoughts  from  wandering  as  smoke  wanders, 
For  time  escapes  away  from  you  and  me 
Quicker  than  birds. 

From  the  Chinese  of  Tu  Fa  (7I2-770)* 


lOI 


TRANSLATOR'S   NOTES 

The  Garden  of  Bright  Waters 

I  AM  hoping  that  some  readers  will  look  on  this 
collection  primarily  as  a  book  of  poems.  The 
finding  and  selection  of  material  and  the  shaping 
of  the  verses  is  my  principal  part  in  it.  Most 
of  the  songs  have  been  written  from,  or  by  compar- 
ing, the  literal  translations  of  French  and  Italian 
scholars,  checked  wherever  possible  by  my  own 
knowledge.  When  my  first  and  very  great  debt 
to  these  has  been  stated,  there  remains  my  debt 
to  the  late  John  Duncan,  to  Mr.  J.  Wing,  and  to  a 
friend,  a  distinguished  writer  both  in  Persian  and 
Turkish,  who  wishes  to  remain  unnamed.  The 
kindness  of  these  writers  lies  in  trusting  their  work 
to  my  translation  and  helping  me  in  that  task. 
My  book  also  owes  much  to  suggestions  prompted 
by  the  wide  learning  of  Mr.  L.  Cranmer-Byng. 
My  final  debt  is  to  him  and  to  another  generous 
critic.  I  have  arranged  my  poems  in  the  alpha- 
betical order  of  their  countries,  and  added  short 
notes  wherever  I  considered  them  necessary,  at 
the  instance  of  some  kindly  reviewers  of  an  earlier 
book,  which  was  not  so  arranged  and  provided. 

102 


Afghanistan 

SiKANDER^  Alexander  the  Great, 

Shalibagh^  the  notable  garden  of  Shalimar  in 
Lahore,  planted  by  Shah  Jahan  in  1637. 

Abdel  Qadir  Gilani,  Abd  al-Qadir  al-Jilani, 
founder  of  the  Qadirite  order  of  the  Dervishes, 
twelfth  century. 

Annam 

K'lEN  Niij  and  Chik  Nu  :  the  legend  of  these 
two  stars  comes  from  China  and  is  told  in  Japan. 
Readers  are  referred  to  that  section  of  Mr.  L. 
Cranmer-Byng's  A  Lute  of  Jade  which  deals  de- 
lightfully with  Po-Chii-i ;  and  to  Lafcadio  Hearn's 
Romance  of  the  Milky  Way, 

Arabic 

Antar,  the  hero  Antar  Ebn  Cheddad  Ebn  Amr 
Corad,  who  lived  in  the  late  sixth  and  early  seventh 
centuries,  owes  his  European  reputation  to  Siret 
Antar,  the  Adventures  of  Antar,  or  more  exactly 
the  Conduct  of  Antar,  written  by  Abul-Moyyed 
**  El  Antari "  in  the  twelfth  century.  This  book 
tells  of  the  fighter's  feats  in  war  and  of  his  love 
for  his  cousin  Abla  ;  and  these  are  the  themes  of 
Antar's  own  poems. 

An   Escape  :    in    this    poem  Abu   Nuas,   the 

103 


Court  poet^  tells  of  an  adventure  of  the  Khalif 
Haroun.  There  is  a  story  that  the  Khalif^  being 
set  back  by  the  answer  of  his  lady^  called  his  poets 
in  the  morning  and  bade  them  write  a  poem 
round  the  phrase,  **  Words  of  a  night  to  bring 
the  day."  All  were  rewarded  for  their  work  save 
Abu  Nuas  ;  and  he  was  condemned  to  death  for 
spying  through  keyholes  on  his  master.  But  after 
he  had  proved  an  alibi,  he  also  was  rewarded. 

**  John  Duncan  was  a  lowland  Scot,  who  lived  in 
Edinburgh  until  he  was  between  twenty  and  twenty- 
five  years  old.  He  was  educated  at  one  of  the 
Scots  schools,  and  knew  his  way  about  the  Univer- 
sity if  he  was  not  actually  a  student  there.  He 
certainly  had  enough  money  to  live  on.  A  love 
affair  in  which  he  must  have  been  infamously 
treated  caused  him  to  leave  Scotland.  Within  a 
year  or  two  he  was  an  established  member  of  a 
small  tribe  of  nomadic  Arabs,  and  eventually  he 
became  in  speech  and  appearance  one  of  them, 
living  their  lazy,  pastoral  life  and  travelling  up 
and  down  with  them  the  whole  line  of  the  south- 
west coast  of  the  Persian  Gulf.  Before  his  death, 
which  occurred  last  year,  at  the  age  of  forty-two 
or  forty-three,  he  had  become  acquainted  with 
the  whole  of  habitable  Arabia. 

**  Let  Mr.  Mathers  take  up  the  story  as  he  told 

104 


it  to  me  :  *  He  married  an  Arab,  and  all  his  forty- 
odd  poems  are  addressed  to  her.  I  saw  only  a 
snapshot  of  her,  which  showed  her  to  be  beautiful. 
In  her  he  certainly  found  healing  for  the  wound 
his  abnormally  fiery  and  sensitive  nature  had  taken 
from  the  first  woman.  She  pulled  together  an 
intellect  rather  easily  subdued.  I  only  knew  him 
after  her  death  (his  reason  for  travelling  to  this 
country),  and  a  dazed,  utterly  unpractical  and  un- 
interested habit  of  mind,  which  alternated  with  his 
brilliance  of  speech  and  to  a  less  degree  of  thought^ 
was  probably  a  reversion  to  the  psychic  state  which 
his  marriage  had  cured. 

'*  *  Like  so  many  to  whom  life  has  at  one  time 
given  a  paralysing  shock,  Duncan  was  extremely 
reticent,  save  when  he  could  lead  the  conversation, 
and  be  confidential  at  points  of  his  own  choosing ; 
and  he  was  not  an  easy  man  to  question.  The 
disappointment  which  had  driven  him  from  his 
country  certainly  made  him  more  bitter  against 
the  British  than  any  other  man  I  have  listened  to. 
All  his  considerable  wit  and  the  natural  acid  of 
his  thought  were  directed  against  our  ideas,  in- 
stitutions, and  beliefs. 

**  *  His  one  sane  enthusiasm,  English  lyric  verse, 
of  whose  depths,  main-stream,  and  back-waters 
his  knowledge  was  profound,  formed  one-half  of 
his  conversation. 

105 


** '  His  English  in  talking  was  rich  and  varied, 
and  it  was  an  ironic  caprice  which  made  him  refuse 
to  write  in  that  language.  I  doubt,  though, 
whether  he  would  have  composed  with  ease  in  any 
tongue,  for  he  found  it  hard  to  concentrate,  and 
his  small  stock  of  verse  was  the  outcome  of  ten 
years  of  unoccupied  life.  He  approved,  rather 
mockingly,  my  promise  to  try  to  find  an  English 
equivalent  for  some  of  them  ;  and  I  think  I  have 
copies  of  all  he  wrote. 

**  *  One  not  acquainted  with  the  man  might  find 
them  rather  hard  to  render,  as,  had  he  been  an 
Arab  actually,  still  he  would  have  been  the  most 
unconventional  of  poets,  neglecting  form  and  the 
literary  language.'  ** 

My  most  cordial  thanks  are  due  to  The  Book- 
worm, of  the  Weekly  Dispatch,  for  permission  to 
make  this  long  quotation  from  an  article  headed, 
**  The  Strange  Story  of  John  Duncan,  the  Arab- 
Scot,"  which  appeared  over  his  nom  de  plume  in 
the  issue  of  that  newspaper  for  March  30, 
1919. 

China 

J.  Wing  :  I  have  already  translated  three  of  this 
writer's  poems  :  "  English  Girl,"  **  Climbing  after 
Nectarines,"  and  "  Being  together  at  Night.** 
These   may  be  found  in   Coloured  Stars,    Mr. 

106 


Wing  is  an  American-born  Chinese  and  practises 
the  profession  of  a  valet. 

Japan 

The  Clocks  of  Death  :  this  poem  is  a  zi-sei,  or 
lyric  made  at  the  point  of  death.  Naga-Haru 
committed  suicide  after  an  unsuccessful  defence 
of  the  strong  castle  Mi-Ki  against  Hashiba  Hi- 
deyoshi  in  1580.  His  wife  followed  his  example, 
composing  this  poem  as  she  died. 

Wakana,  the  turnip  cabbage,  whose  leaves  are 
eaten  in  early  spring.  The  Mikado  is  lamenting 
a  sudden  realisation  that  he  is  too  old  for  his  love. 

The  Cushion  :  the  poetess,  daughter  of  Tsu-gu- 
naka,  lord  of  Su-Wo,  while  at  a  party,  asked  for 
a  cushion.  A  certain  lye-tada  offered  his  arm 
for  her  to  lean  her  head  against,  and  she  answered 
with  these  lines. 

Street  Songs  :  the  three  poems  which  I  have 
so  called  are  written  in  everyday  colloquial  Japanese. 
The  words  of  the  old  language,  which  are  the 
ornament  of  literary  verse,  are  almost  entirely 
excluded  from  these  songs.  In  them  one  finds  a 
superabundance  of  auxiliaries,  and  the  presence 
of  these  marks  a  clear  line  between  the  literary 
and  the  folk-idiom. 

107 


Kazacks 

Tamour-Leng,  Tamerlane.  The  facts  of  *'  You 
Do  Not  Want  Me  ''  are  historical ;  but  it  should 
be  added  that  Gahuan-Beyg  succeeded  in  over- 
coming Zohrah's  indifference,  and  that  a  few 
months  after  their  marriage  he  beheaded  her  with 
his  own  hand  for  speaking  to  another  man. 

Laos 

The  Love  Nights  of  Laos,  **  Wan-Pak  ** 
Nights,  at  the  eighth  evening  of  the  waxing  or 
waning  of  the  moon,  when  even  Buddha  has  no 
fault  to  find  with  love-making  in  the  thickets. 
Songs,  of  which  I  have  translated  three,  are  sung 
on  these  nights  to  the  accompaniments  of  the 
**  Khane,"  a  pan-pipe  of  seven  flutes  ;  some  being 
reserved  for  the  singing  of  the  wandering  bands 
of  girls,  and  others  for  answer  by  the  youths. 

Persia 

The  Roses,  this  rubai  made  Abu  Yshac  famous. 
He  died  at  least  twenty  years  before  the  birth  of 
Omar  Khayyam.  Readers  will  have  been  struck 
by  the  similarity  of  idea  in  **  The  Roses  "  and 
in  two  lines  in  Fitzgerald's  Rubaiyat : 

I  often  wonder  what  the  vintners  buy 
One-half  so  precious  as  the  goods  they  sell. 

io8 


Thibet 

The  Love  of  the  Archer  Prince  :  this  form 
of  poem,  with  one  rhyme  and  repetitive  and  in- 
creasing lines,  is  a  famihar  one  in  Thibet ;  and 
thence  it  has  entered  Kafiristan  and  become  a 
popular  manner  of  composition  there.  There  are 
folk-chants  in  this  form  current  in  the  Grecian 
Archipelago.  English  readers  will  remember  art 
analogous  poem,  **  The  House  that  Jack  built/' 


Priniea  by  Hatell,  Watson  &  Viney,  Ld.,  London  and  Aylesbury,  England' 


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